


Shrapnel

by buttsbeyondbutts



Series: 1920s A/B/O Verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Amputee, Angst, Beta Stiles Stilinski, Character Death, Cis Derek, Demisexual Derek, Depression, Dubious Consent, Gender Dysphoria, Jewish Character, M/M, Mates, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prohibition, Rutting, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Amnesia, Trans Male Character, Trans Stiles, Trench Warfare, Vaginal Fingering, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:26:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsbeyondbutts/pseuds/buttsbeyondbutts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Greenburg’s dead…” Stiles said in a whisper. Derek didn’t answer, just stared up into the sky, trying to catch his breath. All he wanted was a steady job, to provide for his sisters. He never wanted to kill anybody.</p><p>“Sir? We should get moving…” Stiles put his hand on Derek’s shoulder. His eyes were wide and frightened when Derek finally met them. “Please, Derek. Let’s get out of here.”</p><p>Derek jerked Stiles into his arms. Stiles made a squeak as he squeezed too tightly. Derek couldn’t make himself care. He buried his face into Stiles neck, taking breath after haggard breath of that sweet, cinnamon scent. He wanted to bite, mark and claim and take his mate out of that awful place. Instead he ran his tongue along the length of his neck, relishing the pulse when he found it. Stiles whimpered slightly and rested his head on Derek’s shoulder.</p><p>“You alright?” Derek asked. His fingers ran carefully over Stiles’ injured arm, trying to gauge the extent of the wound.</p><p>“Yes,” Stiles’ breath was warm against him. “We should go…”</p><p>Derek pushed his lips to his mate’s neck, trying to memorize the salty sweet taste. “You’re alright,” he said, his mind hazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to Sweetest Subterfuge: First few chapters take place during WW1, five years before Sweetest Subterfuge, and then during.

1917

Stiles hated Scott. Scott with his stupid ideals and stupid bravery and inability to think anything through. If, by some miracle, they both managed to survive this stupid war, Stiles was going to kill him. First thing he’d do when they landed in Beacon Hills, he was going to shoot that asshole.

_“You joined the army?! Scottie, you know there’s a war on, right?”_

_“The war’ll be over by christmas,” Scott shrugged, smiling that stupid, doofy smile of his, “It’ll be fine. They’ll send my pay to mom. She won’t have to work so hard or go begging for handouts from that asshole.”_

_“You tell her that shit?”_

_Scott stared down at his shoes, shoved his hands in his pockets. “I aint exactly got around to telling her anything yet.”_

He’d kill him. He’d shoot him in the fucking chest. When they were six years old, just after Scott’s dad left for the FBI, Scott and Stiles cut their fingers and swore they’d be brothers forever, no matter what. That promise did not include getting shot at by fucking germans. Brothers killed each other all the time, right? It worked for Cain and Able, didn’t it? Sort of?

He only joined the stupid army to protect Scott. His brother, of course, immediately got assigned to the medical unit. He got to be surround by doctors who could actually help if a cannon ball landed on top of him, not a bunch of scared boys just like him. Scott wasn’t standing in a grave they made him dig himself.

“Stilinski!” His commander’s bark somehow broke over the explosions and shots. Captain Hale’s hazel eyes glared down at him, frowning. “You with us, private?”

Stiles shook, unable to speak. He wasn't with them. He was half way between France and Beacon Hills and no damned use to anybody. Captain Hale frowned, furrowing his brow intently.

"Gimme that gun." He snapped, not waiting for Stiles to comply. "Take some water." He hand him a canteen and pushed him down into the trench.

Stiles' hands shook even as he lifted the canteen to his chapped lips, the water spilling out over the edge. What little managed to get in his mouth was hot to the taste. Everything was hot and damp and it smelled like death. Back home, Stiles said everything smelled like death, rotting vegetables and dog shit and the ships in the harbor. He was an idiot then. Still an idiot now but at least he knew what death really smelled like. It cloyed at his nose and lived in his hair and clothes. Death was shit and blood and sweat mixed together and left out to dry and rot for days. They couldn't collect the bodies. Those that tried got their asses blown up and fell down dead on top of corpses.

Stiles dug furiously in his pockets, trying to find Melissa's pills. He forgot what was in them... Cocaine or fairy dust or whatever but they stopped his bleeding, made his tits shrink down. God bless, Melissa McCall, even if he didn’t believe in God. The one drawback of killing Scott would be upsetting Melissa. If he took enough of them, maybe he'd finally be a guy like Dad and Scott. Guys were supposed to be brave, right, once all their parts and chemicals lined up? He could take enough pills and shot a gun and kill people like everybody else. He could hardly swallow, no matter how much water he chugged.

_Work. Work. C'mon damn it, make me brave... Make me brave._

Of course, it didn't. Bravery wasn't a matter of chemicals it was a matter of the soul. His was weak. His heart pounded, loud as the canons, all the more terrifying.  Fuck, I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm not even supposed to be here.

He lied about his age to get here. Lied so he could look after Scott. Scott lied too but they'd a bit more pissed about Stiles because Scott got a penis when he was born and Stiles got magic pills when he turned thirteen.

God, what if he got shot in the leg and they had to cut off his pants to pull the bullet out? Stiles'd never been shot before. Sometimes guys shot themselves to try and get leave. Stiles couldn't do that. They'd find out about him and lock him up for perversion. But would that be so much worse that where he was now?

"Stilinski?" Captain Hale's voice again, quieter this time. Everything seemed quieter. The gun fire died down, the cannons ceased except for a few booms in the distance. Stiles looked up, meeting Captain Hale's eyes, ashamed of the tears in his own. "Are you alright?" Hale asked.

Stiles shook his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't... I'm not a coward, sir, I promise. I just-” he pulled his wrist across his eyes, hoping he could pretend the tears were from the smoke. “I’m not a coward.”

“Why not?” The Captain said in a huff. “I am. Cowards live, Stilinski. You’re wanna live, right?”

“Right,” Stiles said, shakily. God help him, he wanted to live. He wanted to see his Dad and Melissa and even Scott once he got done killing him.

“You still got my canteen?” Hale asked, reaching for it with a an oil stained hand. Stiles handed it back. The Captain tipped his head back and swallowed as much as he could. “You drained it pretty well, didn’t you, boy?”

“Sorry, sir,” Stiles said in a scratchy voice.

“It’s okay. What’s your name, Stilinski?” The rest of the gunnners were climbing down now, reaching for their own canteens, lighting cigarettes and trying to regain a little bit of quiet. “I had a list but I don’t wanna look for it.”

Stiles shook his head. “Nobody could pronounce my first name right, ‘cept my mama. Everybody calls me Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Captain Hale said in a tired sigh. “Figures you got a name like that. I’m Derek.” He lit a cigarette and offered one to Stiles who shook his head. He was still jittery, he’d probably drop it in the trench.

“I think I’ll stick with Captain, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Smart,” Derek shrugged. “You’re a beta, aren’t you, Stilinski?”

Stiles nodded, the one thing he didn’t have to lie about. “You’re an Alpha,” he said. The definition of Alpha had Derek Hale’s picture next to it. He was big, muscled, jet black hair and a powerful chin. Alpha’s always got command positions, but Derek seemed like he deserved his.

“My sister’s a beta,” Derek said, “She raised us… mostly. She used to let us… when we got scared, she’d-”

“You wanna scent me, sir?” Stiles asked, unable to stifle the laugh that welled in his throat. He felt half crazy. Here he was, in his own mass, anonymous grave, surrounded by death and dying and the most beautiful specimen of an alpha and a man was asking to scent him. Hell, the only reason he could hear the request was because the germans had decided to take a break from attempting to kill them all. Derek was blushing underneath his full black beard.

“I didn’t mean- you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” Stiles said, quickly. It sounded nice, a small comfort in the hell of war. Something simple, something like home. There wasn’t even anything sexual about it, though that was immediately where Stiles’ mind went. Scenting didn’t have to be sexual unless you wanted it to be. It only meant closeness, family, submission depending on the relationship between whoever was doing it. Wives scented husbands. Parents scented children. Children scented each other. Hell, Stiles had scented Scott over a dozen times before his dad told him maybe that wasn’t a good idea.

Derek nodded. He swallowed slightly, glanced back to see if any of the others were watching them.  Then his arms were around Stiles, pulling him a few inches closer. Stiles shivered, tilting his head to display his neck. Derek’s alpha scent was strong at this distance. He smelled of burnt sugar and sweat. Submitting to an Alpha, especially when said Alpha was his commanding officer, was second nature. They were the pinnacle of evolution after all, everyone want to follow them or be them or… just let them touch you. Derek brushed his fingers over Stiles’ hair, letting the scent rise out of him.

Then it was over, as quickly as it began. Derek pulled back and stood up. The germans started firing again, everyone was shouting. Somehow Stiles stood up, and got behind his gun again, firing into the night.

***

Derek was losing his mind. Perhaps it was already gone the moment he signed up for this stupid war. Laura looked at him like he was crazy when he told her he’d enlisted but she hadn’t criticized. She understood why he did it. They needed the money. That didn’t make separating from his sisters, the only real family he had left. The day before he shipped out for boot camp, Cora begged him not to die.

His sisters were getting his paychecks now and hopefully it was enough to keep Cora in school, and bread on the table. If he could just keep his promise and make it back to them, maybe all of this, the death and pain surrounding him, would be worth it.

Yet, somehow, it wasn’t the war or the mud and disease that was driving him mad. It was Private Stiles Stilinski that woke him up in a cold sweat, on the rare nights Derek could sleep at all. His neck, lips perpetually chapped almost to the point of bleeding, and that goddamned scent of his, cinnamon and cheap beer, somehow stronger than everything else around them; they were making him looney.

 _He’s just a Beta,_ Derek thought, one particularly distracted morning when Stiles just had to stretch his neck out as far as it could go, cracking out the kinks they got from sleeping in the trenches. Nearly everyone in the company was a Beta. Laura was a Beta. Stiles was unlike any Beta Derek ever heard of. He couldn’t even explain what it was just… something about the boy made it impossible to keep his distance.

If Stiles had been a woman or an Omega, it would have made sense.  He was meant to feel this way about women and omegas, to want nothing more than to protect them, to be near them as much as he could. Pheromones didn’t lie though, Stiles was definitely a beta, and nothing about him could be mistake for a woman. Yet, in the rare moments Derek was alone, it was Stiles’ thin pink lips he imagined around his cock, Stiles’ pale skin he wanted to lick and mark as his own.

Perhaps it was the madness creating fantasies but Stiles didn’t seem adverse to him either. When the men gathered around the fire and discussed their girls back home, Stiles never mentioned any mate but his eyes lingered on Derek through the smoke whenever  someone else spoke of longing. He didn’t argue when Derek sat too close to him or went out of his way to make sure he was alright after the shooting died down.  Derek made up excuses to double check on Stilinski’s funk hole, to touch his things. He wanted Stiles to smell like him. The realization filled him with panic and forced him into second rounds, to try and spread the scent out to the rest of the camp, to avoid any appearance of favoritism.

Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice. Maybe they were all too concerned with not getting blown up to notice Derek obsessing over a private. Maybe they just didn’t care. Enough of the men were frequenting the brothels, against specific orders from the brass, that Derek’s private indiscretion should go unnoticed.

Maybe it was madness, or trench fever setting in, but Derek though he saw Stiles watching him too. When Derek came to inspect the troops, Stiles’ amber eyes flitted over his body, only to dart back to the ground when Derek caught him looking.  After inspection, he’d take whatever Derek touched last, a scrap of paper or a book and press it to his nose. Derek fought the urge to  steal his things. Everything else smelled like death and sick. Stiles smelled sweet, like berries and home.

The madness came to a head nearly a month after Derek first scented Stiles. They were on patrol over No Man’s Land and Derek could feel the fear seeping off Stiles in waves. Nobody was glad to be there. There should have been four of them but casualties had been heavy and few could be spared. Derek went because he didn’t like ordering men to dangerous tasks without undertaking them himself. Also, staying in the trenches while Stiles searched No Man’s Land for downed wire would drive him insane. More insane.

They walked in silence. Derek brought up the rear, staring at Stiles’ hunched back while a boy called Greenberg took the front. The moon served as their only light. Torches weren’t worth the risk of attracting the enemies attention. No guns in No Man’s Land either, just them and the moon and the scent of poison gas still lingering over the corpses.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder, making sure that Derek was still there. Derek tried to look like an Alpha, like he wasn’t scared out of his wits. All he managed was to nod ahead so Stiles would keep moving. The sooner they finished here, the sooner they could return to the relative safety of the trenches.

He didn’t see or hear the germans until they were on top of them. Maybe he was too focused on Stiles or perhaps his own fear drowned out his senses. Either way, Greenberg saw them first. He yelped, like an idiot, and Derek had no choice but to attack. He’d have rather hit Greenberg than the terrified boy on the end of his fist, if only for making that noise. Stiles and the others had the decency to keep their mouths shut, rather than risk the machine gun fire like Greenberg. “Shut the fuck up!” Derek hissed at him, tossing the german kid to the ground and hoping he had the good sense to stay there.

Someone else shut Greenberg up, with a knife across his throat. Derek swore as Stiles, finished with the hun who’d attacked him, leapt to avenge his comrade. The German, higher rank than the other two, slashed for his chest but missed. Stiles stumbled back, his arm raised to block his throat. He’d lost his own knife a few days ago and no shipments had made it through to replace it. A trickle of blood stained his sleeve, glowing in the moonlight.

 _Why didn’t you just turn the other way?_ Derek circled around behind them, as Stiles dodged another blow. He grabbed the hun’s jacket, pulling him back and away from Stiles. _We’d have let you go… no one had to know… we could have-_

Too many could haves filled his mind. Derek wasn’t under any illusion that he’d killed since he joined the army. He didn’t enjoy it, or brag the way some of the other’s liked to, as if this were nothing more than a hunting trip. All those deaths came at the end of a barrel though. He never had to wrap his fingers around the throat of a fellow human being and squeeze until he felt bones break. The hands that had gripped his wrists, trying to pry his hands off, suddenly fell away. Derek let him drop into the puddle of blood and mud that was the entire battle field.

“Greenburg’s dead…” Stiles said in a whisper. Derek didn’t answer, just stared up into the sky, trying to catch his breath. All he wanted was a steady job, to provide for his sisters. He never wanted to kill anybody.

“Sir? We should get moving…” Stiles put his hand on Derek’s shoulder. His eyes were wide and frightened when Derek finally met them. “Please, Derek. Let’s get out of here.”

Derek jerked Stiles into his arms. Stiles made a squeak as he squeezed too tightly. Derek couldn’t make himself care. He buried his face into Stiles neck, taking breath after haggard breath of that sweet, cinnamon scent. He wanted to bite, mark and claim and take his mate out of that awful place. Instead he ran his tongue along the length of his neck, relishing the pulse when he found it. Stiles whimpered slightly and rested his head on Derek’s shoulder.

“You alright?” Derek asked. His fingers ran carefully over Stiles’ injured arm, trying to gauge the extent of the wound.

“Yes,” Stiles’ breath was warm against him. He didn’t pull back but slumped forward, allowing Derek to take his weight. His arms circled Derek’s waist, barely holding on. “We should go…”

Derek pushed his lips to his mate’s neck, trying to memorize the salty sweet taste. “You’re alright,” he said, his mind hazy.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said and this time he did pull back, just barely. Derek let him go, only because Stiles put his hand on Derek’s shoulder and rubbed. “We gotta go though. We gotta, Derek.”

Derek nodded. Stiles swallowed and glanced at the fallen Germans. “What’d’ya want to do with-?”

“Leave them,” Derek said. The main one was dead but Stiles’ had only knocked the other out. The terrified boy might still be conscious but he hadn’t moved since Derek dropped him. Maybe he’d be smart enough to lie about his commander’s death. Derek knew the huns shot cowards but he didn’t want this boy’s blood on his hands as well.

Stiles nodded. He stooped to collect Greenberg’s dog tags, canteen and any other useful supplies still on his body. The dog tags would be sent back to his mother and the rest might well save someone else in that godforsaken trench. He followed Derek back along their patrol route. Their shoulders bumped together as they trudged through No Man’s Land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Stiles is a trans man as always. The situation is slightly more complicated due to the time period but he is definitely trans. Melissa's magic pills are male hormones, which would usually be used as heat suppressant/birth control for cis women and omegas. I don't think a person with a vagina in the WWI army is that unlikely since there were women posing as men in the army as early as the civil war and probably even earlier. To avoid unnecessary angst (Trench Warfare is angsty enough for everyone), lets say that those who figure it out, don't care and those who would make trouble don't notice. 
> 
> Hopefully, I'll answer any questions in the narrative but if you have any questions or criticism (again cis girl doesn't understand what it means to be a trans man, relies solely on personal research), please let me know in the comments.


	2. Chapter 2

Neither of them mentioned the moment in No Man’s Land. They didn’t have time. The relief unit came through, two weeks late and already exhausted from the journey. Then came their own journey, back to base, for a little rest leave, if you could call it that. There was no chance for alone time, not that Stiles could let that happen. Derek stuck close him, irritatingly so. Between the marches and ducking his captain, he had no time to still the beating of his heart or the need filling his weak, changeable body. He wanted, worse than he’d ever wanted before, any man or woman for that matter. Every waking thought was consumed with Derek, his scent, the feel of his tongue on Stiles’ skin, the strange safety of his arms cradling Stiles in the hell of No Man’s Land. The only interruption was panic at the thought of what would happen if anyone discovered his secret. He’d be lucky to wind up in a cell and not murdered by his own compatriots.

Still, Derek wanted him, even if he didn’t know the truth about what Stiles was. The thought filled him with a strange warmth, half way between fear and excitement, as he replayed the scene over and over in his head.

Stiles managed to avoid Derek pretty well since they arrived at camp, mostly because Captain Hale had debriefings to go to and orders to take from fancy commanders who rode in shiny cars driven by other people. He’d sent off a note to his father, to let him know he was alive and ask if they’d heard anything from Scott. It was easier to get news of other soldiers from home, even if they were in the same country on the other side of the pond. Sheriff Stilinski wasn’t moving near as much as his son was. Stiles would have sold his soul to talk to his dad face to face, to ask for his advice. The brass liked to read through their letters though, and Stiles couldn’t think of any other way to phrase, “How do I get over my captain licking me and why do I want it to happen again?” so he kept his mouth shut.

Derek caught him just outside the mess hall, two days after they arrived from the front. He literally caught him, grabbing Stiles’ arm as he tried to slip away between the tents.

“We need to talk,” he said in a hoarse, scratchy voice. His bloodshot eyes devoured Stiles, his skin pale and gaunt.

“Captain-” Stiles started but Derek caught him off with a wince.

“Don’t- don’t call me that,” he said, blinking hard. “I can’t stand it. I’m not your captain right now. I’m not above you… I don’t want- call me Derek like you did… please just call me Derek.”

Stiles swallowed. He knew he should squirm away, prolong the truce for as long as possible. He couldn’t move though, not with Derek holding him there like an anchor. Like the sun pulling the planets ever closer. God, he couldn’t even call him Captain in his own head. He opened his mouth, only to close it again, unsure of what he should say, what he could say.

Derek glanced over his shoulder and dragged him behind the mess hall, just outside of the kitchens. Inside, the cook yelled about beans, dishes clanged together all over the low roar of the men talking in the outer hall. Stiles swallowed hard, staring at Derek. The Alpha stared right back, his lips parted, like Stiles was the eighth wonder of the world.

“I think you’re my mate,” Derek said, almost to himself. He shook his head and spoke again with conviction. “You’re my mate. I know we’re both men and you’re a beta and its not supposed to happen but it did. You’re my mate and I don’t care about any of the rest of it. I just want to be with you. We’ll figure the rest out, I promise. Just let me be your mate. I want you, Stiles. I want to protect you. I want you to be mine. I want to be yours. ”

Stiles didn’t speak. It took every bit of effort in him, just to breathe. _Mate? You think I’m your… You’re mine…_

But Derek didn’t know what he was asking. He couldn’t, because every part of Stiles life was a concentrated lie that he couldn’t break. His very body lied and made him a liar in return. Someone shouted in the distance, something about Krauts and cowards. This was still war. There wasn’t anything there to fall in love with, even away from the trenches and the dying. Couldn’t Derek see that?

“Please,” Derek whispered, his breath hot on Stiles’ lips “Please, Stiles, you can’t tell me you don’t feel-”

“It doesn’t matter…” Stiles said, fighting to keep his voice down. He blinked hard. He couldn’t look at Derek, not if he wanted to say what had to be said. “It doesn’t fucking matter because we’re in a war zone and I’m… not what you want.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” Derek said, pulling him close and kissing him hard on the lips. His beard scratched against Stiles’ delicate skin, leaving warm red lines just like he had in No Man’s Land. That kiss, rough and caring at the same time,… the first kiss that mattered and it paralyzed him. If Derek hadn’t been holding him, he’d have fallen to the ground. His mate… what was the point of denying it anymore? The moment Derek touched him for the first time, Stiles was lost.  His mate didn’t waste time or opportunity to dominate his mouth, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to fight it.  In fact, his body seemed to respond without his consent, pressing up against Derek’s, trying to touch him as much as he possibly could.

Then he felt it… Derek’s cock hard against his thigh. There it was.... that one prerequisite to happiness that he could never have. Stiles pulled back, pushing Derek off and away. Shame made him stare down at the black mud of france, wishing it would swallow him whole. He didn’t have a mate… he didn’t even have the right body, how could he have a mate? He’d seen the looks of confusion, of pity and betrayal of the faces of the men he’d tried to be with, when they saw what he had to offer. Stiles couldn’t stand that look on Derek. Worse still were the ones who got excited, who promised they’d make him feel like a “real girl”  and left him drowning in pain and degradation. Derek was his mate… he couldn’t risk that with his mate. Better to never know at all.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, wiping the string of spit from his mouth. “I’m not- I can’t.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was soft, pleading.

“Please leave me alone,” Stiles whispered, screwing his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears inside. “Please, Der- Captain Hale, just leave me alone.”

Derek didn’t say anything, didn’t even move to catch him as Stiles turned and rushed back to his bunk.

***

Major Finstock glared at Derek through one closed eye. He’d been handsome once, even with that spark of madness in those narrow eyes, but he’d taken plenty of hits on the field. Scars littered his face, most prominently on his lower lip and dangerously close to his eyes. Derek didn’t look much better, he was certain. He hadn’t bothered to shave since his mate rejected him, avoiding mirrors as much as he possibly could. Sleep avoided him just as studiously. He swayed at attention, waiting for the strong breeze to knock him over. His vision blurred around the edges but Finstock stood out disturbingly clear.

“You a coward, Captain Hale?” he said with a raised eyebrow. “I’m honestly asking, because I notice you never send your men over the line. Why is that? Coward’s all I’ve been able to come up with but what do you think, Captain Hale?”

Derek sighed softly. “I don’t see the point in sending brave men to die when there’s nothing to be gained from it.”

Finstock sputtered, glancing over his shoulders to his aides as if to confirm that Derek had said what he did. “Nothing to be gained?! Nothing to be gained?! This is war, Hale! The war to end all wars! We’re supposed to fight it, man!”

“Sir, with respect, what do you want me to do?” Derek asked. “Every unit that’s tried to overrun No Man’s Land comes away decimated… and only a few inches are ever gained. Do we intend to win the war by covering France with American corpses?”

Finstock growled, his finger waving violently close to Derek’s nose. “You are this close to being demoted for insubordination, Captain!”

 _Do it,_ Derek thought recklessly. His mate had rejected him, wouldn’t even meet his eyes any more. The only way he could be close to him was if Derek ordered it, or if the army of huns trying to kill them forced them into unbearably close quarters. Proximity gave no relief, not when he could smell but not scent, when he knew the taste of Stiles but could not touch him without losing him in the last way that mattered. Derek was exhausted and he couldn’t sleep. A demotion hardly dented his consciousness.

But he couldn’t protect Stiles if he lost his command. Gut wrenching as it was to be near him and not with him, Derek couldn’t abandon Stiles and the rest of his men. The thought of those men, many little more than boys, at the mercy of some glory hungry hack kept Derek from climbing on the barbed wire himself. Maybe he couldn’t be Stiles’ mate the way he wanted to but he could at least try to keep him alive.

So he swallowed his exhaustion and apologized. Finstock looked barely mollified. “Get out of my sight, Hale,” he said with a snort, “If I hear of any more cowardice, I’ll have your hat for it.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek saluted lazily and left the tent. A warm breeze greeted him, carrying with it the awful, tantalizing scent of Private First Class, Stiles Stilinski. Derek wanted to climb over the trenches himself, lie down and give up. He couldn’t see any other way to end the pain of Stiles’ rejection. Perhaps he truly was a coward.

Instead, he simply covered his nose and slipped back into his own funk hole to try and get some sleep. Of course none came. If it wasn’t Stiles’ scent filling his nostrils, it was blood and piss and death all around. Men relieved themselves all the time in the trenches. No one was ever shy about it, except for Stiles. Derek suddenly realized he’d never seen Stiles take a piss. The young private slipped away in the morning, just after inspection, and came back looking relieved but he never just pissed with the rest of them in the trenches.

Derek wondered why he hadn’t realized it before. Stiles was a very private person after all. Most of the men developed a funk after weeks in the trenches. Bathing wasn’t exactly a priority, nor did they change clothes often, since any clean clothes would just be covered in blood and mud as well. Stiles never took his clothes off, not even in the sweltering french summers when most of the men fantasized about a swim more than a dame.

It probably meant nothing. Guys came up with all kinds of weird habits to cope with the stress of war. Derek had started a dozen letters home to his sisters, only to stop, terrified that if he said goodbye, he’d be tempting fate. He knew a sargant that had to complete his rosary fifty times after each meal or he wouldn’t live to see the next one. If Stiles thought he could protect himself better, even by a fraction, by keeping himself as covered as he possibly could, who was Derek to deny him?

The only reason you even care is because you’re obsessed with the kid, Derek thought gloomily. Since Stiles rejected him, he’d done his level best to let it go. Derek’s best consisted of interrupting his constant focus on Stiles, the feel of his lip, the warmth of his skin, the brightness of his rare smile, with bitter reminders that he shouldn’t focus so much on a man who didn’t even want him and resolutions to let it go, followed immediately by more thoughts of Stiles.

Shaking off his obsession with his mate was impossible. Stiles was his mate, Derek was certain. Stiles had to know it too. The way they kissed behind the mess hall, how Stiles submitted so readily to his touch and still pushed back. He’d practically climbed Derek. The scent was burning into his fatigues. You couldn’t fake that. Maybe it was the madness again but Derek sometimes pressed the shirt he wore that day into his nose, in the privacy of his bunk, and imagined he could smell Stiles still.

Yet, whatever Derek smelled, whatever he knew to be true, Stiles had said no. He’d rejected him in no uncertain terms and Derek had to respect that. He’d be a monster if he didn’t respect that.

 _He didn’t say no..._ a monstrous thought rose, unbidden to his mind, _He said it didn’t matter._

Derek couldn’t think of anything that mattered more. I’m not what you want Stiles had said, the worst lie Derek ever heard. He’d said I’m sorry and I can’t and then he told Derek to leave him alone and that was the end. There couldn’t be any more because Derek couldn’t do that to his mate. He wouldn’t, no matter how insane it might make him.

Sometimes he still thought he caught Stiles looking at him. Quick glances at inspection before his brown eyes raced back to the ground. He seemed to slump more than usual, no longer laughed or traded stories with the other men around the fires. Derek wanted more than anything to comfort him but… Stiles had told him not to. So Derek stayed away and tried to ignore the only good thing about this terrible place.

***

Stiles curled up in his funk hole, as tight as he could, with his hands over his face. At home, he’d always slept in odd positions, sprawled out on the bed. Half the time, he slipped out onto the floor, his body unable to keep still even in sleep.

In the trenches, there was no other way to sleep, except by making himself as small as humanly possible, covering up as much as he could. Less exposed skin meant less fleshy bits for the rats to chew on. A big fat one had run across his face once at that was about all Stiles could stand. He’d seen another nip into a guy’s eye and hadn’t slept for a week after.

Keeping his hands over his face had the added benefit of hiding his tears from the rest of the unit. Tears weren’t uncommon in the trenches. You’d have to be a monster not to be affected by this kind of hell. Guys died in front of him every day, more from disease than actual bullets. Even so, he knew his particular regimen was luckier than most. Derek- Captain Hale never sent them into a hail of bullets on some idiot quest for glory. That knowledge didn’t exactly help, especially when he thought about Scott, out somewhere Stiles couldn’t protect him, under god knew what kind of commander. Guys called out for their mothers. Stiles’ had passed years ago but he missed her just as much, along with Melissa who’d become nearly as important in his heart. Some guys prayed to their father’s before god, begging for a little bit of courage. Stiles worried about it, whether he’d started hitting the bottle again without Stiles to keep an eye on him. Worse than any of that were the guys who called for their sweethearts in their sleep. Stiles knew the want in their voices to well, the desperate longing for that single touch that could make the nightmares abate, even if just for a second. Much as he pitied those guys, pitied anyone trapped here with him, even the huns on the other side of No Man’s Land, he envied them too. The ones they loved weren’t here with them, close enough but far too dangerous to touch.

He knew he’d called Derek’s name in the night. He’d woken to the words pressed into his palms, terrified that someone else had heard it. No one said anything and that made it almost worse. Stiles would’ve given his arm just to have Scott here, so he’d have someone to talk to about this.

Derek had left him alone for the most part. Stiles tried not to hate him for that. After all, Stiles was the one who told him to stay away. It was safer for the both of them. Even if they’d both had dicks, Derek would be in trouble if they were ever caught. Stiles didn’t like to think what Derek would do if he found out the truth about his mate. If anyone else found out, he’d be kicked out of the army, probably put in jail for lying to them or a nut house for perversion.

The nut house might actually be the best place for him now. Stiles never thought there was anything wrong with him until now. He never felt like a girl and his parents had caught on quick enough when he was little that they never really treated him like one. Between their support, Melissa’s magic pills and Scott’s unflinching devotion, Stiles didn’t have a moment to feel bad about what he was. He got to kiss girls and boys too, if he was careful about it, and if it never went any further, if he never got a mate… he could live with that.

That was before he had a mate… or at least before he knew Derek. Now, Stiles was questioning everything he’d always known. Maybe he would have been happier as a girl. He and Derek might’ve had a chance.

He might not have met Derek if he’d been a girl. Girls didn’t join the army and Derek had said it didn’t matter that they were both men. He clearly liked men… at least enough to like Stiles.

It did matter though.  At that moment, nothing else seemed to matter, except maybe getting back home somehow. At home, maybe, he wouldn’t ache so much. It wouldn’t hurt if he didn’t have to see Derek. Or it would hurt more. Stiles couldn’t decide but he knew he was getting sloopy from heartache. Someday a shell would find him and he wouldn’t duck quick enough. He might be better off.

“Stilinski…” he jumped at the sound of Derek’s voice. Purely out of habit, his eyes leapt up to that chiseled perpetually exhausted face. A twinge of pain shot through him the moment he met those gorgous brown eyes and he dropped his gaze.

“Yes, Captain?” he managed in a shaky voice, finding what refuge he could in formality.

“Help me with this,” Derek said in a grunt. Stiles’ stomach flipped. This was a body, some little smart ass from Nevada whose name Stiles had already forgotten. He’d been asleep next to Stiles. He hadn’t even noticed he was dead.

“Shit,” he said, swallowing. “What are we doing with it?”

“Toss it over,” the Captain said, “No point leavin’ it for the rats.”

“No, gotta make ‘em work for their meal,” Stiles chuckled darkly and then felt sick. The boy’s name Billy Larson. He bent and grabbed the kid’s ankles .

“On three,” Derek said, “One… two.. three,” and they heaved Billy Larson over the trench, another awful layer of protection from Gerry’s guns. Stiles huffed with the exceertion and wished he had some way to wash his hands.

“You lied,” Derek said in a hoarse voice.

“What?” Stiles blinked. Everything around Derek seemed hazy and he couldn’t quite tell if what he saw was reality.

“You lied,” he repeated, whispering now. “On your enlistment form… you’re not-”

“I”m eighteen,” Stiles shook his head, “ ‘Snot like they’re gonna send me back if I wasn’t.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Derek said, and his eyes dropped down to Stiles’ crotch. The private took a step backwards only to push back against the dirt of the trench. “You’re-”

“Don’t say it!” Stiles snapped, “I’m a guy! I’ve always been a guy! I just-” he faltered, suddenly realizing he’d said too much. Derek just stared at him, his brown eyes wide. Well, there wasn’t any point in denying it now. “I just… don’t have everything other guys have.”

“Okay,” Derek whispered, holding his hands up in surrender. “It’s okay… I haven’t told anyone. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Good.” Stiles said, deflating a little. “Thanks, I mean.”

“Don’t mention it,” Derek said, putting his hands into his pockets and staring at the muddy ground. “It doesn’t change anything… not for me anyway.” he glanced up, brown eyes meeting Stiles’ for the first time. You’re still my mate. Nothing’ll ever change that.”

His words were barely more than a breath but they cut to Stiles’ heart just the same. He shook his head, closing his eyes tightly so the tears could not escape. “I’m not. I’m really not.”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted in a sharp voice. His hand was on Stiles’ cheek now, gently thumbing away his tears. Stiles opened his eyes, his lips parting inspite of himself. “You are my mate. I want you to be my mate. I want to be yours. If you don’t want me, really don’t want me at all, I’ll leave you alone and I’m sorry I ever pushed this but I can’t- if you think I don’t want you, or you think you’re protecting me, you’re wrong. I love you, whatever you have or don’t have. I want anything you’re willing to give me.”

“Derek…” a thousand arguments died on his tongue as his captain… his mate… pulled back away from him.  

Derek took a deep, shaking breath, “I just wanted to tell you.” he said, ducking down a little and turning back towards the dugout, where the officers slept.

Stiles was after him in a second, swearing under his breath. His shoulder bumped hard against Derek’s as he reached him. Stiles kept his eyes fixed on the ground as he muttered, “I’m just your mate, okay? I’m not gonna be your girl, understand?”

“ ‘Course not,” Derek whispered, his voice cracking a little in what might be a laugh. “You’re a guy. Always been.”

“Damn right,” Stiles frowned, extra masculine. “Your guy, though.”

“That’s all I want.” Derek said, and his shoulder pressed close against Stiles’.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... as previously stated, I am cis and therefore depend on my own limited resources to write convincingly about trans people without causing harm. Trans history is infuriatingly but unsurprisingly under reported or studied so putting a trans man in WW1 (never mind the ABO verse) is nervous. I hope that I was able to do Stiles justice and more importantly, that I haven't hurt any of my readers with my portrayal. I apologize profusely if I've done so and welcome any critique you might have. 
> 
> Hopefully, this comes out in the actual chapter but, if it didn't, I feel I should explain myself here. I needed Derek to figure out Stiles' secret on his own because there was no way Stiles was going to tell him. Rejection and violence would be painful from anyone but doubly so coming from the man he loves. It's possible I went an obvious/vulgar route with the pee thing but soldiers did pee in the trenches... a lot. I imagine there was a lot of unintentional and intentional dick sightings. Derek being obsessed with Stiles at this point, there's a thing he'd notice, like how you'd notice if somebody never sang in choir rehearsal or something.
> 
> Frankly, I wanted to get the discovery out of the way so Stiles and Derek could do something other than pine/worry through the entire fic. I'm hoping Derek's response sat well with you and it's obvious that he thinks of Stiles, has always thought of him, as a man. Now, the definition most important to Derek is that of Mate. Whatever Stiles is, that's who Derek wants. Derek's feeling wouldn't change for any reason and his first priority is Stiles' safety and happiness. 
> 
> From Thence Forth their angst shall revolve around the fact they're trapped in World War One and could die a number of horrible deaths at any moment. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and please review.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Nothing much changed after that. Nothing really could change. The war raged on and there was hardly a moment to themselves but they were together, for a certain value of being together.  The food was terrible but they ate side by side. The nights were cold but they leaned against each other and made sure they had enough blankets, enough bullets.  Guys died around them but Derek got to touch his things again and press Stiles’ clothing into his nose without feeling guilty. Everything was awful but less so, because they were together.

“You ever had somebody,” Stiles asked in a soft whisper one day as they peeled potatoes in the the reserve trench.

“Not really,” Derek said, “Did you?”

“Nobody like you,” Stiles told him and Derek preened at the thought of being Stiles’ first. “I mean, I kiss girls… and a couple boys-”

Derek growled. Stiles rolled his eyes. “Just kid stuff, Captain, don’t get excited. Never told anybody about me that wasn’t family, so it couldn’t really go further. I tried that once, only once.”

“What happened?”

“He kicked the shit out of me,” Stiles shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Lucky for me, Scott was nearby. He put a stop to it.”

“What was his name?”

“Relax, it was five years ago.” Stiles chuckled. “Scott beat the shit out of him and my dad threatened to shoot him if he ever came near me again. You are very late to the over protect Stiles Stilinski party.”

“Tell me his name,” Derek said. “I wanna kill him.”

“I don’t remember his name,” he rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. I’m yours, aren’t I?’ he said the last part in a  soft voice that only Derek could hear. Only Derek was meant to hear it and the knowledge gave with a warm feeling inside of his chest.

“I want to kiss you,” he said in a whisper reserved only for Stiles. The boy blushed a bright pink and peeled potatoes with renewed fervor.

“Derek,” he said, squeaking adorably as he spoke. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“It’s true.” Derek said and shrugged. “I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you nice and slow, with no dead bodies around us. I wanna bite your lips and kiss ‘em ‘till they don’t hurt any more.”

“Jesus,” Stiles glanced around, making sure they were alone. “You sure you never done this before? ‘Cause goddamn, the way you’re talkin’... fuck, the way you look.”

Derek smiled. “I had a girlfriend when I was sixteen. She was a little bit older, taught me a lot, but I never felt like I do about you. I never wanted to kiss anybody as bad as I wanna kiss you.”

Stiles swallowed, staring down at the potatoes. “I wanna kiss you too. More than anything. Well, not anything… anything in the realm of possibility.”

Derek’s realm of possibility seemed to stretch into eternity as he watched Stiles watching him under his eyelashes. He reached into the bag, making sure his fingers found Stiles’s when they both grabbed at the same potato. “I’ll find a way,” he promised. “I’ll kiss you before the week is out.”

“You don’t gotta,” Stile smiled, ruefully. “I can wait.”

“I can’t.” Derek said, gruffly. “I’m kissing you… before the week is out. Count on it.”

Stiles blushed prettily and stared down at the potatoes. “Okay,” he said with a little swallow. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” Derek told him and stood up, stretching a little for his mate’s benefit. Technically, as a captain Derek wasn’t supposed peel potatoes but so long as it got done, no one cared who did it. The rest of the brass more or less accepted that Derek didn’t act as captains were supposed to. He didn’t think he was any better than his troops for one thing. In certain cases, like a long, skinny boy peeling potatoes, he knew he was woefully inadequate. Still, too much fraternization would draw them undue attention so he ducked his head back down and slipped out towards the dug out, plotting the best way to kiss his mate. As he left, Derek made sure to brush the back of his hand against Stiles shoulder. Any observer would have thought it accidental, unavoidable in such close proximity. They may have to keep it secret, but Derek would never deny himself the chance to touch Stiles, even if it wasn’t anything more than a few fingers or the back of his hand.

***

The first snow of 1917 came before the week was out. Stiles wondered what Scott thought of it. His brother had never been out of Southern California, had never seen snow. Stiles was only a little more worldly. He’s seen snow when he was four, when his father dragged him up to Wisconsin to spend Christmas with his grandmother. Babcia was polish, and she loved the snow. She told Stiles it was the tears of angels.

This was not the tears of angels. Stiles wasn’t even sure he could call it snow. For one thing it was grey and wet, soaking in through his clothes the moment it hit. He gave up trying to wipe it off, instead holding his hands beneath his armpits to try and stave off the cold. Weather was stupid.

Derek took the snow as a personal insult. The only silver lining to god’s bird shit was that Stiles’ mate looked especially cute with a permanent scowl.

Derek took good care of his troops, keeping them as well feed and as far from the shelling as possible, but even he couldn’t fight the weather. They weren’t allowed any kind of fire, through the mud would have surely killed any effort on that front.  The blankets and uniforms provided, still too thin by half couldn’t hope to protect them. The brass suggested they huddle together for warmth, when duty allowed them rest, an order which Stiles eagerly complied with. They still couldn’t do anything fun, not that it would have been possible in the cold anyway, but Derek had a better excuse to press against him in the few moments they got for sleep. Perhaps there was more than one silver lining.

One morning, just before the dawn inspection, Derek slipped a thin, french newspaper into Stiles’ funk hole. Stiles glanced down at it and then back at Derek.

“I don’t read French, Cap’n,” he smiled, “Only words I know are cafe, baggette and la pouffiasse.”

Derek raised a thick, caterpillar of an eyebrow. “You visit les pouiffiasses?”

Stiles squirmed under his gaze, pleasantly embarrassed. “One time… I didn’t do anything, I just wanted to ask them some questions.”

“About what-” Derek shook his head, “Never mind, just… put the paper under your clothes. It’s supposed to add an extra layer of insulation.”

Stiles considered the thin clump of paper. “You don’t want it?”

Derek shrugged. “I’m an alpha. We’re supposed to be tough and you’re thin.”

“Alphas can get hurt just as easy,” Stiles said. He shoved the paper up under his coat anyway, tucking it carefully into his tousers and through his suspenders. He didn’t feel any warmer, at least not because of the paper. “Thanks though.”

The trenches were dug in a zig zag pattern, so if a shell hit one part it wouldn’t destroy the whole thing. Stiles knew his comrades in arms were on either side of the wall, getting dressed or trying for a few extra moments of shut eye before the officers called for inspection. They could call, or circle around to ask if he had a spare comb or some left over cigarettes. With Derek watching him so carefully, his brown eyes brimming with worry and fondness, Stiles barely cared. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against his.

It was their first kiss that wasn’t surrounded by death or bullets. It lasted maybe ten seconds. Stiles kissed him and Derek melted like an ice cube on the sun. He grabbed Stiles’ hand and squeezed tightly before he remembered himself and stepped back.

“Stiles…” he whispered. Then, clearing his voice conspicuously, he said, “Private Stilinski, remember yourself.”

Stiles grinned. “Sorry, sir.”

Derek’s adam’s apple bobbed. He brushed his fingers through his black hair. “I had a plan and everything. This fucking snow.”

“ ‘Snow problem,” Stiles murmured. “You aren’t mad are you?”

Derek shook his head. “You’re not that good at facial expressions,” he said, in a dizzy kind of voice. “This isn’t mad, this is happily defeated.”

Stiles grinned. “I like it.”

“Stop it,” Derek said, sounding pleased.

He gave Derek a lazy salute. “Thank you, Captain Hale.”

“Okay,” Derek smiled wider, “At ease.” He turned and continued through the trenches, leaving Stiles pleasantly warm.  He finished preparing for inspection and took his place next to Stebbins, a private from Kentucky with a thick southern accent.  Stiles didn’t always understand him when he spoke but he was a good kid anyway.

“Captain likes you,” Stebbins said. Trying to figure out what exactly he said meant Stiles’ reactions were delayed so he nearly knocked himself off the small shelf where they stood for inspection and firing on the enemy about thirty seconds after it would have been appropriate.

He recovered himself, as much as he could, by swallowing and wiping some lice off his neck. “Captain likes everybody,” he said, shrugging. “He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah,” Stebbins agreed. “Prolly saved my life a dozen  times since I been here. That’s why I ain’t gonna say anything.”

“I can’t tell if you’re saying anything now,” Stiles growled.

The southern boy grinned, “Fair enough… just wanted to say it’s nice.”

“What’s nice?” Stiles swallowed again.

“You two…” Stebbins’ young face- no way he was eighteen- screwed up in concentration. “Look if you ain’t gonna say anything about, I ain’t gonna say anything about it. It’s just nice, is all. That you got each other. You can see it, easy.”

“There’s nothing to see,” Stiles insisted as the snow started to fall again. He’d have to warn Derek to be more careful. “Why don’t you shut up about it?”

Stebbins shrugged and stared straight ahead. Stiles followed suit, waiting for the brass to come through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's World War Fluff!!!!!!!!
> 
> Thank you for reading. I love your reviews.


	4. Chapter 4

A week after his self imposed deadline of kissing Stiles, Derek’s company got their weekend leave. As usual, Derek kept close to his mate, watching with relief as they trudged further and further from the hell of the trenches. Lately, more men were dying of cold and sickness than gunfire. As much as Derek tried to keep them out of No Man’s Land and the line of fire, he couldn’t ship his men home, away from the rats and lice. The camps weren’t much better but they at least provided hot food and some measure of safety for a decent night’s rest.

Less importantly, leave meant a little bit of privacy. They’d gotten lucky so far, not being spotted or figured out by anyone who might try to blackmail or harm them but they kept it very careful, all accidental touches and short, clandestant kissing in the black of night or the wee hours of the morning. Derek wanted more than that. For the first time in his life, he craved slow, deliberate touches. He wanted to take Stiles on a proper date, like Laura had gone on before the fire, or at least the closest approximation they could have in a war zone.

Derek managed to arrange the whole thing in less than a day. Orders were to report back to duty at 0600 Monday morning. At 1700, while the rest of the men were sleeping or writing letters or getting drunk in the tavern below. Derek lead Stiles to a back alley on the outskirts of the little nameless village near the camp.

“What is this?” he asked, glancing at the dilapidated building.

It was the best Derek could do. He didn’t allow himself much on the field. For one thing, there wasn’t much to be had. For another, most of his paycheck went to Laura and Cora automatically, leaving him enough for emergencies, assuming he could actually get to a shop in one of those. He’d amassed a fair amount of savings, about fifty american dollars. He never spent it, uncomfortable with having luxuries he couldn’t provide for his men. This though, this was special and, for once, Derek had no desire to share.

Before he could figure out a way to phrase all that without disturbing his mate, the ugliest prostitute in all of Europe emerged from the gray, green house. “You are Hale?” she glared through one good eye at Derek.

“Oui,” Derek said, “Ce est mon copain.” He nodded to Stiles.

She broke into a wide smile, a few gnarled teeth. “Vous parlez francais? C’est bon! Entre, entre! Je suis Madeline DuBois,” she gave a kind glance to Stiles and said, in her broken english. “You come in. I show you room.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, glancing back at Derek. “Room?”

“Just for tonight,” Derek promised. “We can leave whenever you want.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Stiles said, following Madame DuBois through a patchy parlor with half the ceiling missing. The french woman still spoke, a wistful tone to her voice that made Derek very glad his mate did not speak this language.

“Je avais entendu Americain etaient tous ferme et peur d’eux-memes....” she said, “Vous avez waincu toutes les attentes, Capitaine Hale. Il est un beau garcon. Je devrais aimer voir des hommes dans-”

“Merci, Madame DuBois,” he said weakly, hoping she would stop before his face burned off in embarrassment.

Madame DuBois grinned her gapped toothed grin and drew a key from the pocket of her apron and opening a very old looking door with a creak. “Ce est la salle,” she said, grandly gesturing to the dust covered room. Derek frowned. Yes, technically it was better than the trenches or the tents provided at camp but it was little more than four walls and a ceiling. There wasn’t a fire place so much as a burned pit in the corner leading to the remains of a chimney.  Madame Dubois saw his expression and shrugged. “Le Diable Rouge. Que peut-on faire?”

Derek felt a small, familiar tug as Stiles gripped his arm. When he turned to look, his eyes watered. “Derek, there’s a bed,” Stiles said, in a shaky voice, “A real bed. My god, I haven’t slept in a real bed since-” he screwed up his face, trying to remember.

“Merci beaucoup, Madame DuBois,” Derek said, with a grateful nod to their temporary landlady.

“Ah, jeune amour,” she said wistfully. “Pour voir une fois de plus dans une telle periode terrible-”

“Vous ne le verrez pas, madame.” Derek said.

She smiled and held out a withered claw. “Alors vous devrez me payer, Monsieur.”

Derek chuckled and opened his kit on the bed, retrieving his fifty dollars in francs and a bottle of wine. “Avec ma grace,” he said, placing it in her hand.

She smiled again. “Bienvenus, Monsieurs.”  and left with a small, halting bow.

The moment the door was closed, Stiles jumped to the bed, stretching out against the dusty sheets. “Oh my god, I don’t even care if she washed these.”

“Good,” Derek said, trying not to think about it. “You like it?”

Stiles sat up, grinning at him. “Of course. I love it.”

Derek couldn’t help but grin back. “I’ll start a fire then.” he said and turned to do so. Surprisingly, the loose paper caught quickly and soon the fire burned in earnest. Stiles hung off the end of the bed, staring into flames.

“When’s the last time we could risk a fire?” he asked, mesmerized.

Derek climbed onto the bed next to him, sliding his arms around that all too thin frame. “We got it now,” he murmured and kissed Stiles softly on his neck. The sweet cinnamon sweat filled his nose and Derek felt like he was still for the first time in his entire life.

Stiles shivered against him. His fingers danced down the curve of Derek’s spine, finally coming to rest at his ass, giving it a small squeeze. “Brat,” Derek murmured, nibbling at his neck.

“Mmm,” Stiles said, “Oughta teach me a lesson.”

“Come here,” Derek latched onto him, gripping the worn lapels of his fatigues and pulling him into a long, proper kiss. Stiles whined against his lips and pushed up against him until he was climbing on top of Derek, smashing their mouths together, eager and desperate. Derek flipped them and pushed him hard onto the mattress. He bit down on his mate’s lower lip, savoring the taste. It was sweet  as usual but with no fear of discovery to push him forward too fast, Derek could really taste him for the first time. Stiles was sweet but not the cinnamon Derek had come to expect from his scent. He tasted like barbeque, warm meat on a summer’s day. Derek could die happy with that flavor on his tongue.

Stiles had his hands in Derek’s hair, pulling him off roughly. Derek made a pitiful sound when their lips parted. “Slow,” Stiles said. His pale face burned red in the thin glow of the fire.

“You want to go slower?” Derek asked, not quite able to draw a full breath.

Stiles shook his head but then nodded. Derek blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I want-” Stiles swallowed and closed his eyes. He laughed softly, shaking against Derek. “I want everything. I want you and I wanna go to sleep for about five days because I haven’t gotten to sleep on a real bed since boot camp and I am… terrified that everythings gonna go away the minute I try and decide.”

“You don’t have to decide,” Derek said. He inched closer to Stiles, his lips just barely above that pale skin. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, watching at the goosebumps began to rise.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Stiles sighed. “Derek, you can do anything you want to me…”

He shook his head. “We only got the room ‘till Sunday.” He pressed his lips to Stiles’ neck, kissing each mole in his line of vision as Stiles rocked against him. “I’m not expecting anything, you know.” He said, just to clarify. “I wanted privacy but… honestly I’m happy just to be with you.”

“You’re an officer and a gentleman, huh?” Stiles murmured, his hands tracing the outline of Derek’s bicep beneath his fatigues. “I know an Alpha’s got needs though.”

“Not this one.” Derek said, and kissed him again. “I’d love have sex with you but it won’t matter if we don’t tonight. It ain’t exactly ideal and we’ll have plenty of time for that after the war.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, swallowing a little, “After the war…”

Derek frowned. He cupped Stiles’ cheek in the curve of his palm, forcing the young Beta to meet his eyes. “I won’t leave you, Stiles. Whatever else happens, I promise you that.”

Stiles blinked and pushed up against him. When he spoke, his voice was muffled by Derek’s shoulder. “We might not get that choice.”

Derek didn’t say anything. Just kissed him gently, his lips pushing into Stiles’ soft brown hair. He could still smell the trenches, engraved on that lovely cimmamon scent. They’d make quite the sight to anyone on the outside: two men, barely washed and too skinny by half, covered in lice and still reeking of blood and piss. Less than twenty four hours ago, they were having a contest over who could kill the most rats in an hour. Yet, in spite of it all, there was nowhere Derek would rather be than here, next to Stiles. He knew Stiles was right. He watched men die everyday. Many of them had stopped hoping for survival completely, instead praying that their demise would at least be quick. But Derek wasn’t going to die. Stiles wouldn’t die either. He couldn’t conceive of a world where they weren’t together, for all that they’d only known each other a few months.

Derek kissed his neck, terrified. “You sure you don’t wanna-” Stiles swallowed, “I mean, if you want to I’ll be okay… I know you got needs.”

Derek shook his head. “You remember you asked me if I ever had anybody?”

Stiles pulled back, blinking up at him. “Yeah?” he asked, almost too eagerly.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Well,” he said, “I never had anybody like you. I never really wanted anyone, even after I presented. I mean… I got ruts like everybody else,” he added quickly, “but even then I didn’t really want anyone in particular, just wanted to come. Beyond that, I didn’t care about sex.”

Stiles stared at him. “Really? No one?”

Derek shook his head again. “No one,” he agreed. “I started getting worried about it when I turned fifteen. I thought there was something wrong with me.”

Stiles made an angry sound, like Derek had personally insulted him. The Alpha chuckled and kissed his mate on the nose before continuing. “So I figured, ‘hell, maybe I just have to do it and I’ll understand what everybody’s talking about.”

Stiles made another sound. ‘That’s a terrible reason to have sex,” he groused.

Derek shrugged. “Probably but that was my logic. I didn’t force myself on anyone at least. I found a Beta girl who liked me and we… did the deed.”

“Did you....” Stiles bit his lip, rolling his eyes to try and figure out what to say. “... figure out what everyone was talking about?”

Derek shook his head. “No. Actually, it was pretty awful. I didn’t feel one way or another about it, just kind of… empty, bored. It didn’t help that she just kind of… disappeared after that, then the fire happened and… it didn’t really matter whether I was normal or not. ”

“Fire?” Stiles said, barely above a whisper. His brown eyes were wide with concern.

Derek shook his head. He didn’t want to think about his family now. He thought about them often enough in the heat of battle, wondering if they were as terrified as he felt when the flames roared down around him. “Too much to get into now,” he whispered back, pushing his fingers through Stiles’ soft brown hair. “After that, I didn’t care about sex at all, not even to worry about why I didn’t care about it.”

“And now?”

“You’ve changed everything.” Derek said smiling. “I know there wasn’t anything wrong with me  now. I was just waiting for you. I told you I wanted you more than I ever wanted anyone before. It’s true but… it’d be more accurate to say I never wanted anyone before I wanted you. You’re my mate. I don’t care if we gotta wait till the wars over, or if we gotta wait forever.  I’ve been waiting for you my whole life and I didn’t even know it. Now that I found you, I don’t need anything else. ”

“Jesus, Derek,” Stiles squirmed against him. He kissed him slowly, whispering against his lips.“You oughta write this shit down.”

“Don’t need to write it down,” Derek said, brushing his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “I’ll tell you every day for the rest of our lives if you want.”

Stiles made a choked noise and buried his face into Derek neck, kissing him rapturously. Derek eagerly returned the touches, giddy with the bare openness of it all in the safety of Madame Dubois’ little room. They lay together, just like that, marveling at each other’s fingers, scents, the press of their bodies, close and open. They fell asleep together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the french is google translated. Fellow english only speakers are encouraged to look them up because Madame DuBois is me and I am here. 
> 
> Also, Demi Sexual Derek! Which I had not intended to write but there he is!
> 
> Also, if you're reading Sweetest Subtefuge (the Cordia sequel set in the Roaring Twenties) you know that I am a cruel, cruel god.


	5. Chapter 5

1918

_Dear Dad,_

_Sorry I’m missing… or missed, depending on when this reaches you, christmas. Sorry, I missed the holidays. I thought maybe I could get some leave but we’re pretty well entrenched here. Hope Scott was able to make it back. If you see Ms. McCall, tell her thanks for the cookies from Everybody in the 118. I miss you and everybody at home of course, but I’m doing alright out here. There’s supposed to be a cease fire on the twenty fifth. D-_

Stiles stopped himself before the second letter at least. The temptation to tell someone about Derek was nigh overwhelming. Stiles could write reams about his mate, if he had the paper and if he didn’t know the army read everything they wrote twice over. Stiles had no doubt Sheriff Tom Stilinski would like Derek, would approve, eventually, of his son’s mate but there wasn’t anyway to let Dad know his mate was good and strong without getting them both into trouble. They’d have to explain it all in person, when the war was over, assuming they survived that long.

Derek said they would. Derek promised.

 _Don’t worry about me_. he wrote instead of the story he wanted to tell about Derek negotiating with the head cook about getting the boys some gin to celebrate the holidays.

_You just take care of yourself, alright? Or at least let Ms. McCall take care of you? You know I get worried sometimes. You stay fit, huh? Keep the streets of Beacon Hills safe._

_I’m almost out of paper so I’ll sign off now. I love you._

_Your Son,_

_Stiles Stilinski_

They probably wouldn’t cross anything out. It was just a normal letter home, to let his Dad know he was okay. Nothing to give aid and comfort to the enemy.

He hoped they wouldn’t cross out the I love you.  Guys weren’t meant to say sappy stuff to their Dads but Tom Stilinski was old. Older than other dad’s anyway and he was cop so people shot at him sometimes and he got reckless. Stiles’s mother always said Tom got reckless when something pissed him off, a crime he deemed inexcusable. It was bad enough when his Dad was just going after wife beaters but now he was Sheriff of a whole damn country and had his hand in half a dozen war committees, guaranteed to piss people off when he tried to explain that no, Mrs. Schmidt wasn’t a spy, nor was her son who’d been born in Beacon Hills anyway. Dad needed to know he had a son coming back that he needed to be alive for. He needed to know Stiles loved him, just in case that first plan didn’t work out.

Stiles just hoped Melissa McCall could keep him out of the bottle. Stiles swiped his tongue across the envelope and put it in his bed roll.

His dad would like Derek, at least. Melissa would too, in that quiet, knowing way of hers. Scott would lose his mind and demand to know if Stiles told anyone before him. Stiles would lie and say no, of course, because an elderly French woman with wandering eyes didn’t count and he never actually told Stebbins he’d been right. And Stebbins had passed from the chill a few weeks after.

Stiles closed his eyes and drew a steadying breath. Around him, guys napped or played cards or wrote their own letters to mothers or sweethearts or friends. Stiles wondered where Scott was now, if he was okay. Dad had said he was in his last letter but that was weeks ago and god knows when Scott was able to write home. His brother was in France, probably no more than fifty miles away, and Stiles was never further away from him. Did Scott have as much down time as Stiles did? When they enlisted, all the posters talked about glory on the battlefield and making the world safe for peace. No one ever said it was mostly sitting around waiting for someone to start shooting and praying they wouldn’t.

Stiles curled up in his funk hole and wrapped his arms around his legs. Derek was gone somewhere and everyone else seemed to have paired off. A frost had settled down across the trenches. The sun was little more that a light grey circle in a sky of steel. It would only get colder as the night wore on. They had about twelve hours before they had to move to the front lines and wait somewhere else to get shot at.

“Christ, it’s cold,” a guy from South Dakota named Hebbert mumbled. He had a thick Norweigian accent so Stiles figured he knew what cold was. “I feel like I’ll never be warm again. Give anything to light a fire.”

Stiles recognized that talk,  the early stages of shell shock. Shell shock wasn’t exactly an apt name for it. Really, it was common sense. Who wouldn’t panic in a situation like this, where you were either gonna get shot or catch a disease or freeze to death? Hebbert was usually so calm in the battles, when he had something to do. These quiet moments though, when you really got a chance to think about where you were and what was happening around you, that’s what got guys like Hebbert.

He was about to stand and try to talk some sense into Hebbert when another guy, Johnson, spoke up. “Can’t light a fire, Donnie, you know that. Come on.” His voice was deep, with a slow cadence. Stiles leaned forward just a little bit to see Johnson put his arms around the shaking soldier. “You hear anything from your wife?”

Everyone knew exactly what Hebbert heard from his wife. He read most of the letters out loud, with the biggest grin on her face. “She thinks he’ll be an Alpha,” he said proudly, like there was an entire roaring furnace in his heart. “She says he’s kicking up a storm.”

“That’s great,” Johnson said, soothingly. “What about a name?”

“Helen likes Julien,” Hebbert said, with a roll of his eyes, “Seems like a girl’s name to me. I like a strong name, Roger or Hank.”

“Those are good,” Johnson said. “I got a cousin named Hank. He’s a rancher.”

They talked names and schools and families until Stiles stopped listening. Talking about home with a soldier was always a bit of a gamble. Sometimes, it reminded them what they were fighting for but Stiles always thought about what he left behind. Scott and his dad and Melissa were all far off and Stiles couldn’t be sure they were alright. As much as he missed his mother, at least he knew nothing worse could happen to her. Stiles didn’t worry about Melissa much, unless her husband decided to start causing trouble, but Scott and his Dad could be idiots. If Stiles wasn’t there to tell them they were idiot, god only knew what they might get into.

He shoved himself out of the funk hole. There wasn’t any chance of sleep now, not with his brain whirring like this. He passed Johnson and Hebbert, curled up together for warmth, without looking at them. Their affection was easy enough to figure out. If Scott was here, Stiles would never hesitate to cuddle up to him to keep warm. Scott was off saving lives somewhere though and Stiles hoped he had someone to hold him through the hard times.  He hoped his father and Melissa were taking care of each other but he knew it was only hope. He couldn’t help them from where he was.

All he could do now was look for Derek.

***

_Dear Laura and Cora,_

_I miss you. Things are alright here, except for the cold. Thanks for the quilt. Don’t send me anything else._

_Bright side of me missing the holidays: they’re adding a bonus to our pay. You should see it about the third week of January. It should keep Cora in school. You’re staying in school, Cora. Uncle Peter doesn’t get a say in it._

_My pen keeps freezing.  Merry Christmas, Happy ~~N- Ne~~ -N _

_D._

Derek scowled, shaking the pen fruitlessly in the freezing air. He sighed and reached for the envelope as Stiles peered over his shoulder. “You know they’re gonna black that last line out, right?” he said, scanning Derek’s letter before he stuffed it into the mail bag with the rest of the companies.

“For what?” Derek grumbled, rubbing his hands together. “The pen froze. It’s cold. The Germans know its cold. The Americans know its cold. The entire damn continent knows its cold. What the hell is wrong with me saying it?”

Stiles shrugged. “It gives comfort to the enemy?”

Derek swore and pulled his arms tight around him, desperate to hold off the cold. “Somebody ought to be comfortable.”

Stiles smiled and leaned up against Derek. “They say body heat’s supposed to help.”

Derek took a step back, glancing around nervously.  No one seemed to be paying them any attention. Stiles frowned at him and blew into his hands. “Look, I’m not saying “get your dick in my mouth or anything,”

“Stiles!”

“I’m just saying, lots of guys stick close for warmth. I saw Johnson and Hebbert cuddled up this morning and I know for a fact Johnson’s engaged and Hebbert has a baby on the way.” his irritated voice sounded muffled through his hands. “We could keep warm, Derek. That’s all.”

Derek softened. “That’s all?” he asked.

Stiles bit his lip and a small grin escaped. “I can keep my hands to myself.”

“Technically, I’m supposed to sleep in the Dugout,” Derek said, “I’ve been called in for blurring the lines between commanding officers and enlisted men already. Probably shouldn’t add the appearance of favoritism as well.”

“But I am your favorite, right?”

“Top three.” Stiles punched him in the shoulder. Derek laughed.

“You’re not gonna start sleeping in the dugout though, are you?” he asked. “I mean, I know its warmer but I- the guys and me like having you around.”

“It’s really not much warmer,” Derek said. Stiles lips looked so incredibly pink in the cold. Derek had to bite his own just to keep from kissing him. “Dugouts are smart in theory but in practice it turns into way too many alphas in not enough space.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, quietly. He paused for a moment, his amber eyes clouded, and then said, “Do you… ever fight?”

Derek shook his head. “Naw, there’re enough krauts trying to kill us. There’s a lot of bickering though. A lot of dumbass posturing.”

“Oh.” Stiles said again. His eyes took on that far away look again and he bit his lip.

“What?” Derek said.

“Nothing,” Stiles glanced at the ground, “Just uh- picturing it. Couple of alpha officers get into a scrape, blood gets up and all those fancy manners come crumbling down and oh no, your shirt got ripped.” He trailed off, looking absurdly pleased with the mental image.

“Stiles…” Derek felt himself flush a bright red. At least the cold would hide it.

“What? A guy can’t fantasize?”

“Not out loud,” Derek said.

“You win, if that makes you feel any better.” Stiles’ smile spread into a wicked grin. “You kick their-”

“GAS!” Somebody shouted and the entire trench burst into panic. Derek pulled the emergency mask from his pouch and  pulled it over Stiles’ head. He ignored his mate’s squak of protest and pressed him against the trench wall. H traveled low to the ground and the guys who tried to outrun it always got the worst of its effects. Worse still it ate through regular clothes, leaving its victims covered in painful boils. He’d seen it leave men blind and permanently disfigured. He grabbed Stiles’ own mask out of his hands and put it on before making sure his mate was covered as thoroughly as possible from the oncoming attack.

Then they waited. Derek wished he could sent Stiles through the heavy mask but the squirm of his mate beneath him would have to be reassurance enough. Stiles yelled at him, something unintelligible through the masks and the wall Derek was pressing his face into but he was clearly pissed. He braced himself against the wall and tried to push back but Derek was stronger. He held his mate still, until the all clear signal rang out.

They pulled off their respective gas masks and stared at each other. Stiles' eyes were wide and stained with tears. Derek wanted to kiss him but first he had to remember how to breathe.

Stiles punched him hard in the arm. "What the fuck was that?!" He snarled, barely bothering to keep his voice down.

Derek shrugged, "gas attack?"

"Well, that's why they made you captain, isn't it?!" Stiles snapped. "What the hell, Derek you can't just... Sacrifice yourself for me! I can put my damn gas mask on!"

"I know," Derek said.

"So what was that?" Stiles deflated slightly and glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming.

"I don't know," Derek admitted, "instinct?"

"I can handle myself," Stiles said, "Jesus, Derek, you can't do that. If you died because of me, I would lose my mind. You understand that right?"

Derek nodded. Stiles closed his eyes in a pained sort of way and sighed. He managed a half sort of smile, dyed in worry and exasperation. "Of course, you do."

"I have to protect you," Derek said, "I can't do this without you."

Stiles opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. The crunch of heavy boots interrupted him. He stepped back, drawing up to full attention as Major Finstock approached. The scarred man barely glanced at him, focusing instead on Derek. “Hale, surprised your men didn’t run.”

“Running makes the effects worse, sir,” Derek said, saluting. He knew he ought to defend his men from the implication of cowardice but he really could care less what Finstock thought of him or his men, as long as it didn’t lose him his command or get anyone killed. It took every fiber of control he had to keep from looking at Stiles. They’d been yelling or it felt like they had. Maybe there was some gunfire but he’d been too focused on Stiles. They needed to be more careful. Finstock didn’t look at Stiles though, didn’t shout about court marshalls or insubordination as he usually did when something insulted him. Maybe they got lucky.

“Huh,” said Finstock, “Well, seems like it was isolated anyway. We caught the Kraut bastard who through it. We’ll get the rest at first light. You get your men to the medics, Hale. Make sure everyone’s ship shape.”

“Yes, sir.” Derek said, relieved. He could already feel the red burn begin on his back. He waited until Finstock was on his way to look back at Stiles. “Come with me?” he asked.

Stiles nodded, looking paler than ever. He followed Derek’s stumbling steps down the long frost bitten trench.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Letters home! Mustard Gas! OC Man Friendship! Please review!
> 
> Also, you might have notice the Shrapnel didn't get updated last week. That is because I hit the end of my buffer and am about to hit my buffer on Sweetest Subterfuge. I'm going to try and update each of them every other week but no promises as life is weird. 
> 
> Speaking of things that are weird, do you want to help me in real life? I've entered a %100 original %100 free story in a contest where winning is based off of internet downloads. If I get the most downloads, I get money that I use to pay off my student loans which means I can stop saying yes to every shitty job I get to pay off my loans and I can focus more on my writing. If you'd like to help out, just copy and paste this link: https://freeditorial.com/en/books/to-move-on and download the story! I would really appreciate it!!


	6. Chapter 6

The gas ward consisted of several long white tents a few yards paste the relief trench. The men didn’t argue with the order to fall back. Any excuse to move around was a good one. Stiles watched Derek with growing dread in his heart. His mate seemed healthy enough but the effects of the gas weren’t always immediately apparent. He’d taken on the brunt of it, trying to protect Stiles, but sometimes guys went blind from exposure.

 _They’d have to send him home,_ Stiles realized. An ugly part of him wondered if he’d rather have Derek blind and safe in the states or in danger in the trenches with him.

Derek kept Stiles close by, or at least he didn’t go wandering far without him. He pressed his shoulders to Stiles’ as they waited in inspection. They stood in silence while the rest of the men grinned and made flirtatious overtones to the pretty nurses looking them over. The girls smiled good naturedly. With the exception of Madame DuBois, these girls were the only women he’d seen since shipping out. They looked absolutely gorgeous but Stiles wondered how much of that they owed to the way he missed his mother and Melissa. Derek’s eyes were trained on a particularly short brunette who looked a lot like the photograph he kept of his sisters.

“Captain Hale?” She said in a chipper English accent. “Dr. Smith is ready to see you.”

Stiles swallowed as Derek followed the pretty nurse to the closed off area. Stiles sighed, watching him go. Another nurse, a blonde, came up a few minutes later and told him to come with her.

“Remove your shirt, please,” she said. She pulled the curtain shut behind her.

Stiles hesitated, more out of habit than anything else. His breasts were never much to write home about, thank god, and Melissa had given him a special a-shirt to bind them down without hurting much. Stiles panicked when they first came in, just after he turned twelve, and about passed out trying to keep them down with Ace bandage. With Melissa’s help, he’d figured out how to cope until they stopped growing. He’d seen guys with bigger tits than his waving around on a hot summer’s day but he still didn’t like taking off his shirt in public. “Do I gotta?”

She nodded, “We need to check if the gas has affected you.” She smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, my brother’s shy around girls too. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Stiles lied. There wasn’t any help for it. He turned around and pulled his jacket off. His fatigues were tucked into his trousers to keep the heat in. When he pulled the shirt out, piles of old newspapers came falling out. The nurse chuckled before covering her mouth with embarrassment. “I really didn’t get hit much,” he said, shivering in the cool air of the tent. “I pushed up on the wall… Captain told us not to run.”

“Your captain’s a smart man,” she said, “pity he got the brunt of it.”

Stiles nodded. “It’s cold, ma’am,” he said, letting his voice rise so he sounded younger. “I really gotta get all the way naked?”

She frowned and sighed. “I see any signs of boils and you’re stripping down, all the way, no whining. You understand me, Private.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, giving her a salute.

She inspected him as throughly as possible without taking off his shirt or pants. Stiles felt the goosebumps raise as her breath spread over his body. He hoped she wouldn’t think it was the effects of the gas.

“How old is your brother?” he asked. There were moments when Stiles just needed to move something and right now his mouth was the only thing available to him.

“Sixteen last week,” she smiled. “Are you feeling any dizziness?”

“No more than usual when a pretty girl wants to talk to me,” Stiles said, grinning. She smacked his knee and murmured, cheeky. “Is he… over here?”

“No, thank Jesus,” she said. Her pale white fingers left Stiles’ knee and pressed briefly to the gold cross around her neck. “He got Polio when he was a baby and it left his legs poorly. I never thought I’d be grateful for it.”

“We end up feelin’ a lot of stuff we never thought we would over here,” Stiles murmured. His eyes flicked to the small opening in the tent where he’d last seen Derek.

“Mmm,” she agreed, “How’s your stomach? Any pain?”

“No,” Stiles said. “No nausea either.”

“Well, you haven’t got any hoarseness in your voice.”

“I feel fine, ma’am,” he said.

“Good for you, sport,” she said, staring into his eyes critically, looking a little too much like the sheriff.. “Turn your head and cough.”

Stiles obeyed and she nodded slightly. “What’s his name?” he asked, “Your brother.”

“Benjamin,” she admitted with a small, far away smile. “Well, I can’t find any symptoms. Amazing with how bad your captain got it.”

“He-” Stiles took a short, steadying breath. “He has the worst luck.”

“What’s your name, Private Stilinski? I saw it on your file but-”

“Nobody can pronounce it,” he smiled, “I ain’t even sure if I do it right. Everybody calls me Stiles.”

“Well, you seem to have a clean bill of health, Stiles,” she said. “You can head back to camp, they said.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” Stiles reached for his shirt and began to dress. “Is Captain Hale gonna-”

“He’s not the worst case I’ve seen,” she said, “but he’ll need to rest for a good long while.”

“But he’ll be alright?” Stiles said. “Eventually?

She shrugged. “I wish I could tell. We get a lot of men in here who seem like they’ll be fine but between the cold and the viruses… it’s impossible to tell.”

“How often-”

“Most people who come in with gas survive,” she said, “if that’s all they’ve got. Sometimes they’re blinded or they lose- but they survive. You should go.”

Everything in him said the opposite but Stiles obeyed. It wasn’t as if following Derek would make it any easier for either of them. If he survived- no, he had to survive. There wasn’t any other option so Stiles would see him once he was better. He left the way the nurse indicated and tried not to think of the way Derek’s steps had swayed when he walked.

***

Derek was kept in medical for three days. A corporal named Ennis replaced him. He had a loud, barking voice and no ability to lower it.  Derek kept a tight unit but Ennis had something to prove. He took guys to task over the most pointless things, like not standing fast enough at attention or crying out in the night. He couldn't wait to get to the front and lead the men into glory. He had a lot of things to say about Derek.

"Nothing against Captain Hale," he'd start when no higher ups were around to hear the insubordination. "But the man acted like we were at a tea party, stead of a war."

Stiles bit his tongue. If you argued with Ennis over anything, he'd put you on latrine duty. Nobody who'd been in the war more than a day bothered with the latrines. Most guys just pissed in the trench, covering it up with some dirt when they were finished. Even Stiles would rather piss himself than be caught in the krauts favorite firing hole. Ennis seemed to like the idea of sending guys to their deaths.

Everyday, Stiles glanced at the tents where Derek was.

Derek came back just as they were set to move on to the next battle field, right at the start of february. He looked tired, his neck lined with scars from the mustard boils, but otherwise whole. Energy buzzed beneath Stiles' skin and he couldn't help the grin on his face when Derek relieved Ennis of his duties. They had to march then so Stiles could exactly get close to Derek. He kept his eyes trained on those broad shoulders, looking for any hint of pain or illness that hadn't been there before.

That night, while the rest of the men settled into their shiney new trench, Stiles snuck into the dugout, looking for his mate.

Derek lay in his bunk. His eyes were closed but he didn’t sleep. Stiles stood for a moment, just watching the thin rise and fall of his chest. His scent had faded amid the antiseptic and bandages of the medic unit but it was there, strong beneath the overwhelming exhaustion and healing hurt. Stiles slid into his arms and pressed his nose into Derek’s neck.

“Alpha,” he whispered. Derek’s fingers rose gently over his shoulders to press into his hair.

“Stiles,” he breathed. His arms tightened around Stiles, pulling him closer. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Where the fuck else should I be?” Stiles whispered fiercely and dug his fingers into Derek’s chest. “I’m right where I need to be.”

“Missed you,” Derek said and kissed Stiles’ hair.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Stiles said. “I mean it. No saving me.”

“Okay,” Derek said. Stiles squirmed against him, grabbing his satchel from the ground.

“Got you something,” he said, trying to move as little as possible as he pulled the bottle out of its confines. “Had some reconnaissance in the village… I found this.”

“Don’t need anything else,” Derek mumbled, kissing his neck. “Stiles, I missed you so much.”

“Oh, so you don’t want this?” Stiles said, swishing the half empty bottle of wine. He’d found it in a bombed out house. He didn’t know where the owners were, if they were alive or dead, and he didn’t care. Derek was here now. Derek was alive now.

He grinned at Derek in the fading lamp light and pulled the cork out with his teeth, waggling his eyebrows. “Here we have a fine… red vintage from… the past.”

“Impressive,” Derek said. “You tried it yet?”

Stiles shook his head. “I was waiting for you to come back.”

Derek sat up, pulling Stiles along with him, and took a swig from the bottle. He blinked slightly and stared at the bottle.

“No good?” Stiles frowned.

Derek shook his head. “I was expecting bad but… it’s amazing.”

“Really?” Stiles took the bottle and took a huge gulp. The wine went down sweet and heady. “Wow.”

“Good job,” Derek said, licking the wine off his lips. Stiles didn’t let go. He kissed Derek hard, scooting further onto his lap, The Alpha pulled him down onto the cot, his fingers in Stiles’ hair. The forgotten wine swished in the bottle, a few drops spilling on Derek’s a-shirt.

“Wasteful,” Stiles tsked. “Do you know what I had to do to get that wine?”

Derek smiled, his thick eyebrows raised. “Killed a man?”

“Two,” he’d founded it on a routine reconnaissance but that hardly mattered when Derek looked at him this way. “I killed two men for this and you’re spilling it.”

“You intend to do something about it?” Derek teased. He bit his lip until the flesh turned an obscene pink. Stiles forced himself to swallow a deep breath.

“Yeah,” he said, lowering himself onto Derek’s broad chest, “Ain’t gonna let it go to waste.” He pressed his lips to the white fabric, just below Derek’s nipple, and sucked. Derek gasped rising slowly off the cot and pawing at Stiles’ shoulders.

“Too much,” Stiles asked, slyly, never lifting his lips from Derek’s clothes.

“Don’t stop,” Derek moaned, just a little too loudly. Stiles silenced him with a quick kiss before sliding down his body to suck at the other nipple. Derek held him in place, whispering needy encouragement.  His big, calloused hands landed in Stiles’ hair, absently massaging his scalp. Stiles could feel all the thoughts, the worry and panic of the last few weeks fade out of his mind underneath his mate’s fingers. Derek’s abdomen shivered beneath him but not from cold. If they looked outside, the snow on the trenches would have melted. The trees of Picardy would have burst into flame and the war would be over.

Only, as Stiles rose to lick the last remnants of the wine from Derek’s razor burned neck, they’d never need to go outside again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, mustard gas is terrifying but only about 2% of those exposed died from it. Some were blinded and lost limbs which is equally awful but Derek got lucky. People are gonna get lucky a lot in this fic. 
> 
> So, I actually wrote the wine part with the roles reversed a while back but I felt like Derek was doing too much in the relationship. Poor Alpha deserves some consideration. 
> 
> I also promise the last line is not a cliff hanger. I'm not gonna come back in 2 week and be like, "and then the grenade exploded on his butt the end. "


	7. Chapter 7

Of course, they had to get up again. Stiles had to slip away before dawn inspection and Derek had to resist the urge to scent him every time he laid eyes on the boy. War waited for no one. Canons and rifle fire echoed in their ears. Derek’s hearing got progressively worse, every noise punctuated with a small, tinney buzz. Letters were written and read. Stiles’ brother had made it home for christmas and managed to send a letter when he was stateside. Men got sick and wavered for weeks before they got better or, more likely, succumbed in hospital. When Derek couldn’t avoid it, they crossed into No Man’s Land and men exploded next to them, or dropped, clutching their arms and chests to stop the blood from wounds that would never fully recover. Derek did his best to keep Stiles close to him in the smoke and screams but there wasn’t much he could do besides that.

Mostly, they sat in the trenches, dreading the relief of their boredom. They played cards, or wrote home. Derek had started carving the empty bullet casings into familiar shapes of women and the building of Beacon Hills. It passed the time well enough but Stiles obsessed over the little figures. He called them sculptures and started carrying his favorites around with him, while Derek was content to leave them in whatever trench they were finished in.

“Who’s this?” He said, holding up the most recent on a rare rainless afternoon. It was June now and the snow had disappeared.

Derek shrugged. “No one in particular,” he said, though he’d been thinking of his mother while he made it. The combination of a bullet shell, a dull knife and Derek’s limited skill and memory didn’t do much to capture the warm strength of Talia Hale, the way her slim body seemed to take up the entire room she was in. Laura looked like her, while Derek and Cora took after their Alpha father, but it wasn’t quite the same as having her around.

“She’s beautiful,” Stiles said, turning the little carving over in his palm. “You’re really good at this, Derek.”

Derek shrugged but smiled. All the people he made were women. The men, Stiles included, teased him a little about some fictional sweet heart he wouldn’t tell them about, but really Derek just missed his sisters terribly. The Letters weren’t enough to really let him know how they were, whether Cora had stopped picking fights or if Laura actually liked her position with the war office. He couldn’t tell if a letter was lying or not. The only parts he actually trusted were the brief descriptions of Uncle Peter causing trouble.  Only a few years older than Derek, Peter opted to stay home as a conscientious objector with a bad back. Neither the back nor his objections stopped him from picking fights in the local tavern. Betas and Omegas could cite conscientious objection; Alphas were expected to be naturally blood thirsty. If Derek never heard another gun in his lifetime, it would be too soon.

Stiles turned the little figurine of Derek’s mother over again, examining the curves and patterns wonderingly. “This is really good, Derek. You’re sure you don’t want to keep it?”

Derek shrugged. “It looks like all the other ones. It’s not like I won’t make more.”

“Mmm,” Stiles said and stuck the tiny metal woman in the pocket of his trousers. “Oh,” he said with a quick blink. “Forgot I had this,” he pulled out a short, paper wrapped rectangle. He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply before unwrapping the bit of chocolate and holding it out to Derek. “You want some?”

“Hell yeah,” Derek leaned forward and snapped off half the bar. The heat from Stiles’ pocket had partially melted the bar so warm brown goodness stained his fingers. “Where’d you get it.”

“Cook,” Stiles grinned and popped the rest of the bar into his mouth. “I traded that comic Scott sent me for christmas.” He settled back on into his funk hole and closed his eyes, sucking on the chocolate. Stiles had a theory that if you made yourself eat slow, the food would fill you up better. They didn’t get much opportunity to test it, ravenous as they were. Derek’s instinct was to bite and chomp whenever something halfway edible was handed to him. He never took the time to wonder about making it last.

He turned back to his carving and let Stiles digest the candy in warm silence. Above them, the sky was blue.

***

Stiles watched the  black clouds rolling in again. and pulled his coat around tighter, with a growl. “Drive across the country?” he muttered to Derek as the Captain slogged beside him. “No problem. Sail across the ocean? No problem whatsoever. ”

“Really?” Derek said, “I threw up.”

“Okay, minor problems,” Stiles conceded. “The point is I survived countless battles, poison gas, the fucking winter to end all winters and I’m gonna drown in the rain.”

“You’re not going to drown,” Derek said.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles brushed up against his shoulder in the guise of trying to get more comfortable. The other guys, and Stiles suspected most of them had put two and two together about him and the captain, didn’t notice or didn’t care, too busy trying to keep themselves dry. “What if I fall asleep with my mouth open?”

“I’d push you over,” Derek said. “Let the water drain out.”

“Chivalrous,” Stiles said.

Derek shrugged. “I am your mate,” he said in a low voice that only Stiles could hear. Stiles pushed against him again, feeling suddenly warmer.

“Hey,” he said after a moment or two. “I just realized; it’s the fourth today.”

“Huh.” Said Derek and looked up at the sky. “No fireworks.”

“No.” Stiles shook his head. “Fireworks would be bad.”

Derek returned to his carving, another, shorter woman and Stiles buried his head in his knees to try and get some sleep. None came so he settled on bothering Derek. “What are you going to do when you get home?”

It was a favored topic of conversation between them, planning out a future where they were both alive and safe and together. Stiles had been elated to learn that Derek came from the same little city town in California, though it was quickly apparent that they ran in different circles. Derek shrugged as he always did. “Get a job, probably. I worked construction before. I could do it again. Keep my kid sister in school.”

Stiles got a brief, pleasant thought of Derek in a sweat stained uniform on a new high rise downtown. “Is construction hard?”

“It’s a lot of lifting,” Derek shrugged again. “You’d like it. You get to hit stuff with a hammer, work outside.”

“Ugh,” Stiles said. “I never wanna be outside again.”

Derek chuckled softly. “California’s sunny, remember?”

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t even remember what the sun is, Captain. All I know is rain and mud and snow.”

“It hasn’t snowed for months,” Derek said, mildly. There was a small squeak and one of the other guys swore. Stiles didn’t have to look up to know another rat had been killed. That in itself made his stomach turn uncomfortable, that he’d gotten so used to vermin and casual killing of vermin in his living space. Derek barely even registered it, just bumped slightly against Stiles, perhaps to comfort him or to comfort himself. Some of the guys made a contest of killing rats with shovels or knives. Derek didn’t bother much about it, except if he had to tell them off for wasting bullets, but it made Stiles ill. He left the rats alone, at least as much as they left him alone. There was enough killing between people without bringing rats into it.

“Hell, we’re moving out soon.” Derek added, “Maybe Lorraine won’t rain at all.”

***

Derek panted hard through the rain and smoke. He hoped it was just smoke. He couldn’t hope to pick out the scent of gas in all the blood and shit and burning. The jack rabbit beat of Stiles’s heart barely reached his ears beneath the hail of bullets, the bomb of the cannons and the men shouting around him. He could make out a few flecks of German and English but none of it made any sense in his ears.

Beneath everything, he could just hear Stiles’ voice. He wasn’t talking to Derek, just mumbling prayers or bargains with some higher power as he always did during a battle, but his words gave Derek something to focus on. He didn’t have to think about the carnage around them or worry about the state of his soul right now. All he had to do was stay alive and keep Stiles alive. Let the others worry about the war.

All he had to do was stay alive and keep Stiles at his side. As if he could hear Derek’s thoughts, Stiles brushed up against him. In that brief contact, Derek got just the barest of his mate’s fear soaked scent. Against every instinct he slogged forward rather than taking the boy into his arms and holding him until that scent went away. Once the battle was over, Derek intended to do just that, to take Stiles and mark him until their scents merged and became indistinguishable from each other’s. For now though, fear might well keep them alive.

The grenade landed just between them. Derek barely had time to register it before he pushed Stiles away. The explosion rocketed in his ears and Derek went flying. He could see only grey skies and then nothing.

He opened his eyes again at the sound of his mate’s voice.

"Derek! Derek!"

Stiles sounded so far away. Everything sounded muted some how, except a tinny ring in his ears. He tried to stand but couldn't. He couldn't move at all. He stared up into a gray blue sky and tried to move but he couldn't.

Suddenly, Stiles appeared above him. His helmet had blown off, leaving his brown hair to wave in the wind. His face was bleeding. "Derek," he said and kept talking but all Derek heard was that tinny buzz. Somehow, everything, the mud and rain and the scent of gunsmoke and blood and fear, all of it disappeared leaving Derek with nothing but Stiles’ voice. His mate’s gorgeous face stared down at him, warped with fear and panic. Derek moved his mouth to try and comfort him but no words came out. He took a long, haggard breath and tried again.

There was nothing. Stiles said his name again and shouted something but Derek couldn’t make his mouth work well enough to answer him. The effort exhausted him. He knew he should say something. He should stay awake at least and comfort his mate. Big, wet tears feel from Stiles’ brown eyes, or maybe it was the rain. Derek couldn’t tell. His own eyes blinked heavily and then dropped and wouldn’t open again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update since I feed off misery. Hope you enjoyed you brief moments of fluff before the carnival of angst!


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

His hands shook so hard they ripped the paper. Stiles forced himself to breath, to fold the paper with his mate’s name on it and stick it in his pocket because that was all he had left of Derek’s now. A name and some figurines because the army had taken the rest of his gear and sent it stateside for his grieving sisters. He squeezed his eyes closed tightly and breathed hard and fast, trying and failing to slow down as his knees gave way beneath him. He landed hard on the hospital floor, pain echoing through his bones, and he didn’t even care.

“Fuck,” Stiles sobbed. “Fuck… goddamn it, Derek! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Outside, he could hear laughter, bottles popping open, people shouting the good news.

“Hey!” some asshole called to him, “We won the goddamn war! Fucking Gerry surrendered!”

“Fuck off,” Stiles hissed. He wanted to push himself off the floor and beat the hell out of each and everyone of them but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything but curl in on himself and pray for death.

“Hey,” the asshole said in a softer voice, “Hey, what’s the matter? Didn’t you-”

“I said Fuck off!” Stile roared. He fucked off and left Stiles to curl in tighter on himself, the medical report in his pocket weighing him down more than a hundred pounds of chains.

Captain Derek Hale died on September Twentieth 1918, less than a month before The Great War, The War to End All Wars, finally stopped. Stiles had spent the last weeks of the war desperately trying to track down his mate, holding on to the edge of hope that somehow Derek survived and they would find each other again.  They’d found each other before, right? Amidst the blood and the shit and the rats and the live and the dying all around them, they had found something worth keeping in that godforsaken place. Except Stiles couldn’t keep him because Captain Derek Hale’s injuries were infected and he fell under a nasty fever and died before Stiles could find him again.

He curled in on himself, pulling his knee up to his chest as tightly as he could. He didn’t bother trying to regulate his breath, or stop the tears from rolling through the dirt on his cheeks. He didn’t care if anyone saw him, if anyone knew what a coward he was. Nothing fucking mattered anymore.

He closed his eyes and waited to die. You were supposed to die when your mate died, or at least just after. Stiles remembered Melissa McCall coaching him through far too many panic attacks after his mother died, when Stiles thought his father would drink himself into an early grave trying to follow her. He never quite understood it then; of course he missed his mother but his dad acted like the entire world had gone out with her.

Stiles understood now. He didn’t care about going home, or seeing his family. With Derek gone, nothing mattered.

***

Scott met him at the docks. The war thinned him out, drained some of the color from his face but Stiles felt a rush of warmth when he recognized his brother. Scott saw him just a moment later and pushed eagerly through the crowd shouting his name.

He grabbed Stiles, huge hands crushing his thin shoulders, and pulled him into a tight hug. Stiles let himself go limp in his brother’s arms, breathing in the warmth, the scent of him. Beta pheromones didn’t work on other betas. This was just Scott’s superpower, he could instantly put Stiles at ease.

“C’mon,” Scott said, slinging his arm around Stiles’ shoulder and pulling him close to his side. “Mom and The Sheriff are back here some place. Can’t find anybody in this crowd.”

“Scott,” Stiles said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You- you alright, Scottie?”

He could hear his brother swallow, the slight change in the rhythm on his heartbeat before he answered. “I’m gettin’ there,” he said with a little sigh. “Better now that you’re back.”

Their parents found them before Stiles had a chance to say anything else. He didn’t know what he could say, to any of them, even as his dad crushed him into a tight embrace, only letting go so that Melissa could run her fingertips over his hair and face and comment on how thin he was. Before Stiles knew it they were jamming into a cab and rushing back to the house for dinner. Melissa had cooked a feast in honor of Scott and Stiles returning home in one piece. Technically, Melissa and Scott had rented rooms from the Stilinskis for the last ten years or so. Stiles didn’t believe for a second that his dad actually kept their rent checks. The McCalls were family. Melissa’s presence did his father more good than any rent check could.

Together they ate, swapping stories of what they’d done during their separation. Scott eagerly spoke of his mentor in the medical corps, a veterinarian who said Scott should track him down when he returned to California, that he might have a job for him.

"You're quiet, son," the sheriff remarked. Stiles looked up vaguely from the half eaten pie on his plate. Sometime in between zoning out during Scott's drunk Dr Deaton story and now, his brother and Melissa had cleared the rest of the dishes and retreated to talk in the kitchen.

"I'm just tired, Dad," Stiles said, with a weak smile, "long trip, y'know."

The sheriff nodded slowly. He looked older than when Stiles left him, more worn down. Months ago, Stiles would have given anything to talk to this man or to Scott or Melissa. Now he had nothing to say. Words couldn't change anything. Talking about Derek, fully explaining what the war had given and taken from him, felt tantamount to removing a bayonet from his chest. Everything would come out and the wound would never again close. He'd die if he ever had to see that much blood.

Stiles didn't exactly want to live but death wasn't precisely an option. His father needed him, Scott too. Melissa might, if only to keep the others in line.

_And suicides go to hell._

Not that Stiles actually believed in God anymore. That faded after his mother passed and his father stopped dragging him to temple. Yet, on the off chance he was wrong, on the off chance there was a life beyond death, Stiles had no doubt Derek in heaven.

So Stiles had to wait for something else to kill him.

The Sheriff sighed. He reached over, tousling Stiles' hair as he'd done when his son was a boy. "Okay," he said in a soft voice before clearing his throat and saying gruffly, "you rest up, then. When you feel like talking, you let me know, okay? I missed you, Stiles."

"I missed you too, Dad." Stiles said. He didn’t say anything else.

***

1919

_He could smell fire and gunpowder and blood and smoke but no burnt sugar. No Derek, just screams and explosions and a hail of bullets. Stiles needed to find him but he couldn’t move. His limbs wouldn’t work, no matter how he struggled with the weight of them. He tried to shout, to find his mate somewhere in the heat of the battle, to get Derek somewhere safe but he couldn’t even scream. He couldn’t do anything._

_Then he was there. Derek lay bleeding and splayed across the mud. His wounds stood stark and open in air and Stiles still couldn’t move. He couldn’t get to him. Even if he could, Derek was torn apart. Stiles couldn’t do anything._

_“Medic!” he shouted, finding his voice at last.  “Medic! Stretcher!”_

Big, calloused hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up. For a minute, Stiles fought, clawing and punching at the unknown assailant. They weren’t Derek’s hands- Derek was hurt- he needed help and they were trying to take Stiles away from him.

“Stiles!” Scott whispered fiercely and his brother opened his eyes. Scott stared at him, his big brown eyes blown wide with worry. His black hair stuck out at odd angles. It took Stiles a minute to realize they were at home. He was in his own bed and Scott had risen from his across the room to stop Stiles’ nightmare.

He could still smell the sulfur though. How many times had he dreamed about coming home only to wake up in the trenches again? Stiles swallowed and tried to take a breath but couldn’t.

“Stiles,” Scott said again. His voice was softer, calmer now. “It’s okay, Stiles. Just breath. Breath with me.”

Stiles nodded. He stared at Scott’s mouth, watching the breath go in and out and tried to match it.  

"That's good, Stiles," Scott said soothingly. "You're doing good." He shook his head quickly. The scent of battle dissipated just in time for him to catch a whiff of his father and Melissa at the door. They backed away, as Scott silently instructed. Good. Stiles hated them fawning over him. Scott was alright. Scott woke up with nightmares too.  Scott understood.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Scott asked, in a very quiet voice.

Stiles shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about anything, much less losing his mate night after night as if once wasn’t enough. He never thought he’d come out of france as a stoic.  Scott swallowed, watching him despondently. “Can I hug you then?”

Stiles nodded, grateful to be asked. His brother wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. Big round fingers, calloused with his work at the vet clinic, played in Stiles’ growing hair. Stiles breathed in deep, letting Scott’s tomatoey scent calm him. Scott was the picture they put next to the dictionary definition of Beta. He could calm anyone but especially Stiles. Scott smelled like warm tomato soup, like his mother used to make. They’d held each other through every major crisis in their lives; through the awful years Scott was still living with his father, through Claudia Stilinski’s illness and eventual death, a dozen broken hearts on either side and now, now this.

Stiles curled his fingers around Scott’s broad shoulders and held on for dear life. Scott sighed softly and tightened his grip.

“Please, Stiles, you gotta talk to somebody,” Scott said, “It doesn’t have to be me but… it’s every night now.”

“No,” Stiles said. He lived through losing Derek enough without making it a discussion. He can’t take that kind of pity from Scott or Melissa or his father and he won’t tell anyone else either. There too much to explain, too many complications that he doesn’t want to dissect with everyone he knows. “I’ll figure something out. If it’s too much, I’ll go.”

“No,” Scott said, almost sobbing. “Stiles, you stay right here, man. Don’t go anywhere.” His grip tightened again and Stiles snuggled in closer.

***

1920

They criminalized his coping mechanism. Stiles would write so many goddamn letters to congress, to the president, to the goddamned supreme court. God forbid, a goddamn veteran skip down to the corner store for a nip of medicine so he could sleep through the night. No, he had to squeeze into some dirty little basement bar for brownish swill and wait for his father to break down the goddamn door and arrest him.

But he didn’t have to think about his actual life down here. He could get drunk, hussle some pool and pretend like he had a real job. Nobody recognized him. Nobody asked any stupid questions. He could forget, or at least ignore the perpetual ache inside of him.

“Sure you ain’t never played before, kid?”  An alpha, twice his size, growled as Stiles sunk two balls into the corner pocket.

“ ‘s my first time,” Stiles slurred, purposefully missing the next shot. He was drunk, of course, but not quite as drunk as he made it seem. “B’ginner’s luck, huh?”

“Huh,” The Alpha said, taking his turn. Stiles leaned against the cue, watching him. The Alpha was bigger than him, and Stiles knew he had friends watching the game. Stiles knew he was pretty easy to piss off too. Losing face in front of his buddies, especially to a mouthy little greenhorn like Stiles, would definitely piss him off.

Stiles didn’t care.

He won the game, even as his opponent audibly growled and cracked his knuckles like the villain in a picture show. He didn’t really care about the money either. His dad and Melissa were both flourishing. Even Scott managed to keep his job at the vet clinic. He was talking about the two of them getting their own apartment someday, as if Stiles could ever really contribute with his coping mechanism and all the issues that required it. The money was nice sure but he liked beating cock sure Alphas more.

Even when they beat him too, only a few minutes after he left the bar.

Stiles barely fought back. He could have, if he felt like it. The alpha was drunk and sloppy. He needed two of his buddies just to hold Stiles steady while he hit him. Stiles   little for sure but he had no real intention of escaping. He grinned at the alpha’s fists connected with his stomach. The pain washed over him, cleansing. Maybe this time, they’d kill him.

A shout of concern coupled with his name wiped the smile from stiles's lips. His brother, brave, beautiful, idiotic, rushed the Alpha beating on him. Stiles fell back the other two rushed to assist their companion. He watched through half closed eyes as Scott, still wearing the loose scrubs Dr. Deaton gave him,  made short work of his attackers. He didn't run after them when they made their escape, shouting something about psycho betas. Instead he crouched in front of Stiles, taking in the damage. "what the hell, man," he muttered brought hands running over the cuts on Stiles' face.

"Would you believe they started it?" Stiles asked, tasting the blood in his mouth.

"No, " Scott said, an ugly look on him. "Because someone else started the last five,"

"Do you think I'm off putting?" Stiles asked, smiling.

"I think you're suicidal," Scott row, refusing to let Stiles make light of it. "I think you've been pulling this shit for over a year now, and it needs to fucking stop!"

Stiles pulled back now matching Scott's glare. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then you need to tell me what's worth letting my brother die."

Stiles huffed. "I'm not-" he grunted trying to ignore the pain in his ribs, "I'm not going to die."

"You've made it your mission to piss off half the assholes in town," Scott said clicking his tongue and pulling stiles to his feet. "You're skipping meals, committing felonies, you can't sleep unless you're halfway pickled. " He pulled Stiles into the lamp light. He looked so much like his mother, biting his lip as he inspected Stiles, that he almost laughed. He would have if he weren't royally pissed off. He flailed back out of Scott’s grip, swatting his hands away.

“Yeah,” Scott said, almost to himself. “I’m taking you home.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles sputtered, a glob of spit falling from his mouth. He ignored it. “I got shit to do tonight.”

It was maybe… two o’clock in the morning? Stiles could totally scrounge up another bar fight if he wanted to. If Scott would fucking let him.

“Yeah,” Scott said, crossing his arms in front of him and looking exactly like Melissa, “I’m either taking you home or I’m taking you into the station and you can explain this to your dad.”

Stiles stepped back again, his fist half way raised. Scott blinked but didn’t move. The message was painfully clear; Do this and I will never forgive you.

He let his hand drop.

Scott let out a soft sigh and put his arm around Stiles shoulders. They walked in silence back to the house. They would have anyway, if Scott hadn’t opened his mouth about a block away, only to close it again. His grip tightened on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Don’t tell me you’re going shy now,” Stiles said. He meant to tease but it came out bitter, like almost everything now.

“We can’t keep going on like this,” Scott said wretchedly. He stared down at the cracked cement, barely lit but the flickering street lamps. “I know something happened to you in the war, something more than just the war, I mean. I thought- I hoped you would tell me eventually but it’s been two years.”

Christ, had it really been that long? Stiles’ head ached. He’d been mourning Derek longer than he knew him.

“You don’t gotta tell me,” Scott said, turning his key in the lock. “You don’t owe me anything but you are killing yourself over this. I know mom’s worried, and your Dad- he won’t talk about it but I know-”

“What you all talk about me together?” he snapped, “Nice little discussion group about whether Stiles is crazy or not?!”

“Of course we talk about you!” Scott snapped, “We care about you!” he blinked hard and took a long, ragged breath. “Jesus, Stiles… you remember when we first came back? How Mom kept crying for no reason? She told me she couldn’t believe we both came home safe- she was sure she’d lose us and now- I don’t wanna lose you two years after the fact, man!”

 _You already lost me._ Stiles thought, _two years ago._ He remembered reading the report of Derek’s death, falling down on his knees and wishing he was dead. He’d wished he was dead every day after too. Maybe he had been. Maybe he’d been dying bit by bit for the last two years.

“We should get upstairs,” he said, glancing at the room where Melissa slept. Since they were kids, the boys shared the attic while their parents took the rooms below. Scott stood, rooted to the spot, his arms crossed and shoulders hunched.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” he said, not meeting Stiles’ eyes, “but you should talk to someone. You need to.”

“Fine,” he said in a soft exhale. “I’ll tell you my war stories, if you really wanna know.”

Scott stared at him. “Really?”

Stiles sighed, “Not here. C’mon,” he turned and slunk up the stairs without waiting for Scott to follow him.

Scott closed the door behind him and Stiles was grateful. He really didn’t want Melissa listening in if they happened to wake her, or his dad when the sheriff came home. He also hated him for it, because Stiles had never wanted to get out of anywhere as badly as he wanted to get out of here.

Scott sat on his bed, hunched slightly under the low ceilings. Stiles forced himself to breathe, to steal just enough air to speak.

“I had a mate, in the war,” Stiles said. His brother stared but said nothing. Stiles closed his eyes. If he was going to say it, he was going to say it now. “His name was Derek Hale… he was an Alpha, my commanding officer. I loved him.”

“Stiles,” Scott’s voice was quiet, worried, “Did he, y’know?”

Stiles nodded. “He reciprocated, yeah. He knew about me and he didn’t care. It was… Jesus, Scott it was incredible.” Painful as it was to talk about Derek, once Stiles got started he couldn’t seem to stop. He told about Derek’s laugh, how he was such a hard ass when they first met, how he always made sure to sleep next to Stiles so they could touch in the night. “We never… he never knotted me,” Stiles admitted. “It wasn’t sex so much as it was just being close to him, touching him anyway I could. I don’t think I’d have survived without him.”

“What happened to him?”

“St. Mihiel,” Stiles said, trying to swallow the rock in his throat. “You remember what it was like.”

Scott nodded. “We got hit with an artillery shell. Derek tried to protect me and he- I got a medic and they took him back to the encampment and… and that was the last time I saw him.”

“Stiles,” Scott sounded almost as broken as Stiles felt. He didn’t fight as Scott pulled him into a tight embrace.

“I tried to find him but… everything was so crazy and before I knew it they were sending me home.” He sighed, “I finally found a record of him, he’s dead. He slipped into a coma and he died.”

Scott stared at him, not bothering to blink away his tears. “Stiles…”

“I didn’t-” he took in a ragged breath. “I couldn’t tell anyone. I dream about it every damn night but I can’t talk about him. He lived here, you know? He had sisters. I thought about tracking them down a million times but… what the hell would I even say?”

“I’m sorry,” Scott said. For a moment, Stiles couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or suggestion but then Scott’s fingers began rubbing soft circles in his hair, like he was comforting Stiles after a nightmare. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles let out a small huff, that might have been a laugh in another life. “Yeah, me too.”

He let Scott hold him through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh... so...
> 
> Story News: Real Life has been ensuing lately and I don't like it. I do intend to finish this fic (it's gonna be long as fuck and there's also Sweetest Subterfuge and this McClinski prequel/epilogue I started a million and five years ago) because its fun and the comments really help my mood but I am really trying to focus on building a career as a writer so the updates will be irregular. Thanks for your patience and support. 
> 
> This chapter was originally intended to encompass the whole time between Derek's death and Sweetest Subterfuge but hey, that's five years and fuck that's long. So you get the half way point and special focus on Sciles Friendship. I really love Sciles friendship and I get annoyed with how little it's used in fics (maybe I am reading the wrong fics). Scott is one of the driving forces in Stiles' life, just as much as the Sheriff is. Scott is the hero archetype- he will try to save everyone and Stiles is in desperate need of saving. 
> 
> Right now, Stiles is passively suicidal which I personally dealt with for a big portion of my life. Mine, of course, was a matter of brain chemistry and thankfully not PTSD, systemic oppression and losing my one true love in a really traumatic fashion. I did react pretty much the same way Stiles is, playing fast and loose with my health/well being. See, when you want to die, you don't put that much effort into living. I'm doing better now. It took a lot of work to figure out these feelings and to get into a place where I could talk about them, even through weird historical ABO fanfiction. 
> 
> Also, hey, The Stilinskis are jewish. Because I don't have enough head canons about a show I no longer watch.
> 
> As always, comments are my lifeblood.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING/SPOILER:  
> So about... half way to 3/4s of the way down, we get into dubcon/depression/fetishization and general uncomfortableness. I was uncomfortable writing it but I feel like it adds to the story. If you're uncomfortable, based on this warning, just stop reading once it says 1923 and I'll recap what happened at the beginning of the next chapter.

1921

Stiles woke up groggy and irritatingly sober. His brother snored on the twin bed across from him, mumbling something Stiles didn’t even try to understand. Stiles considered smothering him with the pillow but it might upset Melissa. He could hear her downstairs, puttering in the kitchen, even as he stared vacantly at the ceiling. Everything was far too loud and bright and he didn’t even get the satisfaction of being hung over.

Six months had passed since Scott, with a combination of blackmail, brotherly affection and earnest sympathy, had convinced him to stop drinking. Stiles despised every moment of it but he couldn’t exactly fault Scott for wanting to keep him healthy. Ever since, Stiles told him about Derek, he’d felt some of the weight shift from his shoulders to Scott’s. It wasn’t enough to make the loss of his mate bearable, nothing would do that, but it was less and Stiles could fake happiness easier with less.

True to his word, Scott didn’t tell the Sheriff or Melissa about Derek but he followed Stiles around like a incredibly non threatening hired gun. His presence, arms crossed and glare disapproving, significantly lowered Stiles’ success in the speakeasies. Eventually, Stiles stopped going for anything other than to refill his bottles to get through the nights. Then he stopped going at all. The booze no longer worked its magic. Maybe it never had at all.

Stiles rose silently and slipped down stairs to use the restroom. He had to pee and wanted a wash, since that was what normal people did and he needed to be normal now. If he wasn’t, Dad would start to worry again and he’d have to explain everything about Derek and the war all over again.

The clock just chimed ten on a Sunday morning and Stiles felt as if he’d been up for days. He groaned softly, stretching the cricks out of his neck, and listened to Melissa in the kitchen. She was making coffee, humming softly to herself. Stiles wondered how long she’d been home for.

He heard the soft, shuffling steps of his father next, coming out of his bedroom. When Stiles was younger, he thought his father was invincible. Then his mother died and the Sheriff, then a deputy, seemed to grow old over night. Stiles couldn’t ever tell if his father had actually gotten slower, or less capable, or if he was just paranoid about losing a parent again. Perhaps it was both. He thought having Melissa around helped, at least to spread the worry around between two people, three if you counted Scott.

“Good morning,” Melissa said. Stiles barely heard her. She sounded different… her voice tinged with a satisfaction that Stiles had never really heard from her before.

“Hey,” his father said, his voice soft, “Some of that for me?”

“Sure,” she answered, mugs clinking together as she started to serve. They were quiet then, almost silent except for the almost imperceptible sound of their movement. At once, beta pheromones filled the air, the ones that presented in great moments of contentment or joy. His father’s smokey scent mixed with Melissa’s soft sage seemed to fill the small house.

 _Must be some coffee._ Stiles hesitated, his fingers on the door knob. There wasn’t any point in hiding out in the bathroom, just as much as there was no point in lying in bed and pretending he could sleep. He wasn’t even really hiding. Why would he hide from his father and Melissa, who was just as much of a mother to him as his own had been, standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee like they’d done for thousands of mornings before hand?

Still, he kept quiet as he pushed the door open. He slipped through the hallway, his fingers tracing the wallpaper to remind himself of the physical, that he was still there and not a ghost in his father’s house. He stopped just at the doorway, his fingers still on the frame.

Melissa stood facing the window. Her black curls were loose, shining in the rising sun- Stiles couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen her with her hair that free- and his father had his fingers in Melissa’s hair. He was kissing her. Not some light peck of gratitude or appreciation but a real kiss, just for the sake of it.

Their coffee sat untouched on the stove.

Stiles turned quickly, suddenly realizing his intrusion. He turned back again, sure that he’d imagined it.

No. Noah had moved down to Melissa’s neck, marking it as she giggled and held his head against her. When was the last time Melissa McCall giggled like that? Ever?

Stiles turned again. He went as silently as he could, back upstairs to his bedroom, painfully aware of every creak and clomp. His father and Melissa didn’t appear to notice, too wrapped up in each other to real care for the early noises of an old house.

Scott stirred slightly when Stiles shut their door. He mumbled Stiles’ name, not awake enough to be properly worried. “Wha’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Stiles said quickly, climbing into his own bed and pulling the covers up around his chin. “Go back to sleep.”

“Y’sure?” Scott asked, already half way there.

Stiles swallowed, “Yeah, Scottie, everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

“Kay,” Scott said and rolled over again.

Stiles lay awake, playing the seen over and over in his head. How long had his father and Melissa been involved? It had to be a while, judging by their pheromones and the easy way they touched each other. How had he not noticed? Had Scott noticed?

He should tell Scott. Melissa was his honest to goodness mother, after all, not just someone who felt like a mother. He ought to know if she were involved with a man for the first time since his father left.

Not that anyone had any abiding affection or loyalty to Ralph McCall, least of all Scott. He’d probably be thrilled about the news that The Sheriff and Melissa were together. Why would they keep it from their sons? Maybe Stiles could see if it were a new relationship but his father didn’t have relationships. Nearly ten years after his wife died, Noah Stilinski had never gone out on a date. He had never come home late reeking of perfume like so many men who lived with their wives did. He still wore the plain gold band around his finger to symbolize that he was claimed. Until that morning, Stiles would have said that his father never even looked at another woman after Claudia but… apparently he was wrong.

Stiles wondered if he should disapprove. He loved his mother, even after so many years without her. However kind and understanding she might be, Melissa could never take her place. She hadn’t tried too though, just stayed there where Stiles and Noah needed her. She had became a third parent in Stiles’ heart, even before Claudia had actually died. When the illness was claiming his mother’s mind and body, Melissa had been there for her, and Stiles and Tom as well.

Could he deny her, deny his father, any kind of happiness just out of loyalty to the past?

Unbidden, the memory of rough, calloused fingers ghosting over his arm sprang to mind. Stiles curled in on himself, pulling his legs up to his chest. He could feel Derek against him, unkempt beard scratching at his neck and wet tongue soothing the slight hurt. The bump of Derek’s shoulder against his, when they had to be around people, that small reassurance of his presence, crashed into him too.

Except it didn’t. Derek wasn’t there and he would never brush against Stiles again, never kiss him or scent him or… anything again. Stiles would never kiss his mate in the morning while they waited for their coffee to cool. They’d never fall into the easy, effortless togetherness Stiles saw in the kitchen, because Derek died three years ago and it still hurt.

For a brief, awful moment, Stiles hated his father. Why should he get this twice, (twice!) when Stiles barely had it once?! Why should he be happy again when it took each ounce of Stiles’ effort just to keep from breaking apart?

His stomach turned with guilt and bile. No one deserved more happiness than his father and Melissa. If they could make each other happy, how could Stiles ever begrudge them the opportunity? Especially when he would tear the world apart if there was even the smallest chance to see Derek again, let alone make him happy.

He lay there for a moment, letting the idea waft over him, the worst and best day dream he ever inflicted on himself. If he and Derek had a chance to be together outside of the war, would it have stung worse when Stiles lost him? Maybe but maybe he’d be left with just his grief, instead of the nagging regret that twisted inside him. If Stiles had been brave enough to love Derek the way he deserved, open and proud, maybe he could let go of the possibility that could never be fulfilled.

If he’d been brave enough to love Derek openly, they both would have been shot. Stiles squeezed his eyes closed and tried to turn off his brain. There was never any happy ending for him and Derek. If the war hadn’t separated them, the world would have. Those few months in the trenches were all they got. Even with the secrecy, he wouldn’t ever erase them, wouldn’t want to forget.

 If his father and Melissa needed their secrecy, even from their own children, Stiles could do that. God knew he had enough secrets of his own.

After a long moment, Stiles rose again. He made sure to make as much noise as possible going down the stairs.

1923

Scott tried. God bless him, he really tried to keep Stiles on the straight and narrow. He succeeded for the most part by following Stiles around town and clicking his tongue whenever Stiles attempted something remotely fun or dangerous. Stiles tried not to resent this. Scott could be fun but he never let Stiles do anything dangerous or illegal which cut out a lot of his preferred pastimes. Plus, Scott knew all of Stiles’ tricks so he couldn’t give his brother the slip nearly as easy as he could with the Sheriff or Melissa.  

Scott couldn’t be around all the time though. Eventually, he had to go to work, kept getting long night shifts at the clinic that wore him out for the rest of the day.  Then there was the girl he met at one of Melissa’s suffragette meetings, _Allison_. Allison in Italics as Stiles thought of her, since Scott’s voice got all dreamy when he talked about her. She was a pretty beta from a rich family who managed to trap Scott’s heart with a flutter of her eyelashes. The feeling appeared to be mutual, judging by the number of nights Scott came home giddy and bursting with pheromones.  Stiles was happy for him, really.

Except, his brain went to bad places when Scott wasn’t around and Stiles’ body always followed it.

Now a man whose name he didn’t know had him pressed up against the wall, his fingers toying with the clipped brown locks of Stiles’ hair. He was taller than Stiles, but thinner. Stiles couldn’t tell if he was old or young. When he spoke, his breath pressed against Stiles’ neck.

“Have you decided what it you want, little one?” he asked without any inflection or emotion. Stiles shivered beneath him. He hadn’t decided anything.

He knew what he ought to do. He should push the black haired man away, run from the dark room and dunk his head in the coldest water he could find. He should go home and find a bible or a torah or an algebra text book to read.

Instead, he said, “What’s your name?”

“Nō.”

“Like,” god, his head was swimming. What the hell was in that drink? Sake, they called it? “Noah? Or No, I’m not going to tell you even though-” he cut himself off in a short gasp as the older man- he must be older- sunk his teeth into his throat, stopping just short of drawing blood.

“Nō” he said. “You may call me, Nō, if you wish to call me anything.”

“Okay,” he swallowed, “I’m Stiles.”

Nō shrugged. “That hardly matters to me. Have you decided?”

“I-” Nō stepped back, giving Stiles space to breath. He did. The air was cold in his throat and he thought he should run. Nō put his hands in his pockets and watched Stiles with a raised eyebrow.

“This is a one time offer, little one,” he said. “If you wish it to stop, it will end forever. I’m a busy man and you are trying my patience. What do you want?”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep everything out. What did he want? He’d been wanting forever. His entire being was consumed with want that could never, ever be satisfied.

But he could be distracted. He could pretend if he just shut his eyes and held his breath and remember as much as he could about Derek’s scent and Derek’s touch.  He could lie, maybe. He could try.

“I want this,” he swallowed.

“Tell me,” Nō instructed, “Tell me exactly.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Nō nodded, a slit of a smile widening over his face. “I thought you might.” he slung his arm over Stiles’ shoulders and pulled him close, just tight enough to hurt but not so that Stiles wanted to run. Half of him wanted to run but that was overruled as Nō pushed him to the door. “I have rooms upstairs.” he said, “We won’t be disturbed.”

“I should tell you,” Stiles said, “I ain’t exactly like other guys.”

Nō glanced him over, appraisingly. Stiles felt himself flush under the gaze. He squirmed slightly but Nō’s grip never softened. “Intriguing,” he said and pulled Stiles up the stairs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so time line for these fics is getting weird in my brain. I might go back and switch up some dates but I am writing thing primarily for fun so I likely won't care. Just pretend nothing interesting happening in 1922- just a dull year. 
> 
> Also, in case this isn't clear; Nō is the Nogitsune (but human... y'know.)
> 
> Please comment!


	10. Chapter 10

The soldier woke to white. For a moment, he thought he was dead, floating in eternal white nothingness. Then sound returned. People were talking somewhere just outside of his vision. He could hear work outside, birds singing, the whirr of some kind of machine. Something muffled the noise though, like cotton in his ears. He wanted to move, to shake loose whatever kept him from understanding the world around him, but his body was lead, too heavy for him to lift.

He blinked, only to stare up again at the sea of white. The voices, one masculine and one feminine, grew closer. Suddenly a warm, black face burst into the white above him. He blinked again, the only way to register surprise available to him. Whatever he expected to break through the nothingness, the face of a beautiful woman was not it. She said something that he couldn’t understand, enunciating slowly for his benefit. He blinked and let a small breath escape his own parched lips.

The black woman sighed and pressed a damp cloth to his lips. She didn’t speak any more but the wetness felt like paradise. He breathed again, in thanks or perhaps he’d forgotten to in the last few minutes. He blinked twice and tried to make himself understand. The woman’s hair was tied back behind a white cap. She wore a matching apron and blue sleeves rolled up to her elbows. There was blood on the ends.

 _Nurse_. The Soldier’s mind supplied. _American, french maybe? Did the krauts have negro nurses?_

Another voice, masculine again, spoke beyond his line of vision.  “Braeden,” the nurse looked away, towards the new voice. They spoke again, a buzzing language that he didn’t understand but he caught a couple words of english before the sound faded completely. The soldier tried to focus, to understand, but the haze in his head only grew stronger. He blinked twice and then couldn’t get his eyes to open again.

***

He woke to the sound of his own screams ravaging his throat. His arm- his whole left side was on fire, charred flesh filling his nostrils.  They’re burning- he thought wildly, screams echoing through his brain- Mom and Dad… Cora. They’re burning! He screamed again, tried to get up and run from the flames attacking him but someone caught him and held him down. Several someones with their hands on his chest and his right arm, every part that wasn’t actively engulfed in flame.

“Anesthésique!” Someone shouted and the negro nurse- Braeden, his mind supplied through the panic- pushed him back down onto the bed. She looked angry, biting her lip in fierce concentration as she pushed a needle into his bicep but- no, that arm was on fire.

Except it wasn’t. His arm couldn’t burn because it wasn’t there. He stared at the place where his elbow, forearm and hand ought to have been, where he still felt pain like it was there, and saw only dirty white sheets over his rickety cot. Where did his arm go? He couldn't remember anything but fire and pain and where was his arm?

She injected him again and the soldier felt woozy, panic seeping away. He looked again for his arm. Maybe the light or the drugs were playing tricks on him but no, it was still gone. Something else was missing too. Something important.

***

Braeden sat by his bedside with her eyes closed. He watched her through half closed eyes. She wasn't asleep, just resting. The exhausted look on her face so familiar and yet he couldn't place it. The soldier couldn't place much of anything any more.

She cracked her neck and her amber eyes fell on him. "You wake, mumbles?"

He glared. Since waking up, the soldier's speech came in starts and stops. If he focused, he could get out the right questions, though the answers never stayed firm in his mind. He took a deep breath and willed himself to speak clearly. "Yes."

She smiled without showing any teeth. "Good job. How are you feeling?"

 _Like I lost an arm and my mind,_ he thought but settled on a shrug.

"Fair enough," Braeden said. "Your vitals look good. I've got news for you."

"Wh-at?" He asked, wincing at the crack in his voice. He never got news, good or bad.

"We figured out who you are," she said, watching him impassively. "Or we know your name anyway."

He took a deep breath and swallowed. The list of things he knew about himself was short. He was an Alpha soldier, American by his accent, but his dog tags were gone and no one identified him after the clusterfuck at the end of the war. Communication between the negro medics that managed to pick him up and the brass was all but non existent. They certainly didn't make any special effort for an amnesiac amputee who didn't seem likely to make it through half the infections they'd discovered on the first quick once over. By rights, according to Braeden, he should have been six feet under within the week. Now he had a name. "W-well?" He managed, feeling a bit queasy.

"Captain Derek Hale, of the 118 infantry," Braeden said. "Born and raised in Beacon Hills California, age 24. Looks like your parents passed but you've got two sisters waiting for you. Well-" she frowned, "says you're presumed dead. So... Surprise, I suppose."

He- Derek swallowed. None of it sounded familiar. He thought if someone would just tell him his name everything else would come flooding back to him. He'd just learned his parents were dead and his only family believed he was dead too and he felt nothing. Nothing except the long vacuous gap of his brain.

"Derek?" Braeden said softly. "Does this... Ring any bells for you?"

He shook his head. "I-I-I ah-" he scrunched up his face trying to avoid the loop, "I re- remember fire? The wah- the wah-" Braeden waited patiently for Derek to spit out the word War and then nodded.

"Probably the war," she said with a slight nod. "I'm sorry, Derek. I thought this would help."

Derek hissed. He didn't intend to but that was what came out. He hissed again and again until he gave up. "Not ya fa- yer fa-fall-" he fell back on the bed with a loud, "Fuck!"

Braden disguised her smile as a grimace, decent of her. "That you can say, huh?"

Derek glared at her, hoping to convey the appropriate amount of fuck off. She did smile then. "Sorry," she said. "I'll let you rest."

Derek made an affirmative sound. She left the file to rest on the little table. He made the token effort to close his eyes once before picking it up and leafing through the life he didn't remember.

_Captain Derek Hale._

_Unmated_

_Alpha._

_Next of Kin: Laura Hale (older sister), Cora Hale (younger sister- alpha)._

Alpha written in by hand so she couldn't inherit. A flash of red anger crossed over Derek's brain. He had two sisters, thousands of miles away, with no idea what happened to him. The war office couldn't be bothered to mark him down as Alive but someone took the time to make a note that his baby sister couldn't inherit what little he's possessed.

Derek closed his eyes and thought about Cora Hale, turning the name over in his mind to try and understand what it meant to him. The war office hadn't put much effort into summing up his life. All he knew was Beacon Hills, dead parents and two sisters, one older, one younger. Laura might be ten years older than him and Cora just a babe in arms.

He could picture a baby now, with short messy hair, the same color as his. Her eyes glowed red when she squalled and her mother- a sudden image of his mother hit Derek's brain like a punch to the face- clutched her tightly, still drenched in sweat from the labor. Uncle Peter wanted to get rid of her. He didn't say it, not so Derek could hear anyway, but the moment he saw Cora something dangerous bubbled up to the surface. Talia wouldn't let him alone with her baby until Cora was old enough to scream and fight if he tried anything. Peter never did, at least not that Derek could remember.

Derek fell back on the bed and opened his eyes. Every nerve in his body, even the severed arm rotting in a field somewhere, screamed in pain but Derek couldn't make a sound. He remembered something from before the war. He had a memory.

His first memory of his mother revolved around his uncle wanting to kill his baby sister. Derek didn't like to think of the standard that set for the rest of his past.

***

Braeden helped Derek sort through the memories. She was kind, in an abrasive sort of way. Derek wondered if she was neglecting other patients to help him but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. She might take offense and stop helping him. He needed her. She was the only one who’d talk to him like he was a person.

“So the fire you remember is probably the one that killed your parents?” she said, as the circled around the village. The citizens were still rebuilding but it looked like a different town from the bombed out wreakage Derek had woke up in.

He nodded. “Not just my parents though. My aunt too… Peter’s wife…” he struggled for a moment trying to remember his aunt’s name. “M-Marnie… I think.”

“You said Maureen last time,” Braeden said, “so probably something with an M? Or maybe she had a nickname?”

“Maybe,” Derek frowned. His aunt felt less solid than the rest of his family. She had mousey brown hair and she smiled a lot. Derek couldn’t remember what she smiled at.  

“You remember the fire,” Braeden prompted. Derek nodded. “Were you there?”

“No,” Derek said. “Laura and I went to the pool. Cora was b-being punished. She was- was- She was up- up-”

He sighed. He always stuttered when they talked about the fire.

“We don’t need to talk about this-” Braeden said gently. Derek shook his head.

“No,” he managed. The fire was his strongest memory. Everytime he revisited it, there was a little more about his uncle or his sisters, his life before and after. He felt like his brain just wanted to fully illustrate how much he’d lost that day and still draw out the pain. Yet Derek couldn’t give it up because without the fire he was nothing, just a man with no past and no future.

“Cora w-was being punished because she- she argued with Mom over breakfast. She wanted to wear trousers but Mom said no. She does now.” The memory popped up without any pain, just a small fact rather than an entire experience. “Cora wears trousers now. Just around the house. It bothers Laura but she doesn’t say anything.”

“She doesn’t want to make it a bigger problem?” Braeden asked.

Derek nodded. She laughed, the hood of her coat falling down with the movement over her head. Derek snuck a quick glance at her hair, threatening to tumble loose from it’s pins. What would it look like, all the way down? “That was me,” she said, jolting Derek out of his imagination. My mother would’ve had my head if she knew how often I snuck out in my brother’s pants.”

“Cora stole mine so much Mom stopped asking her to help with the laundry,” Derek said, “They were so big on her, she looked like she was wearing a circus tent. She was eleven.”

She must have been terrified.  Derek took a deep steadying breath of cold air and did not try to speak. He remembered seeing the smoke from blocks away, running behind Laura to confirm their worst fears, trying to push through crowd and explaining to the police and firefighters that it was their house- their family-

“Peter saved her,” Derek said, his voice wavering, “He- he got her out through the window on the second floor. J-j-jumped through the g-glass.”

“He was brave.”  Braeden said.

Derek nodded. Peter’s courage did nothing to endear him to his nephew. He managed to avoid the war but not from cowardice. He merely didn’t see the point to it and helping his nieces survive wasn’t a good enough reason.

“He regrets it,” Derek said. “He blames Cora b-because he c-couldn’t save the others.”

“How do you-”

“He told me.” Derek said, too sharply, wincing at the memory. Peter’s drunken shouting as he and Laura tried to push him out of the apartment. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright,” Braeden said. “Do you want to head back?”

“Yes.” Derek said. He was tired of talking.

Braeden said nothing for a long time, almost the entire walk back to the hospital. Derek was grateful. His head ached from thinking and his arm, lost and buried somewhere, cried out in pain. He wanted calm, safety. He could ask Braeden to scent her. She was a beta after all, naturally calming, and Derek liked her as a person. That made a difference, he’d discovered. Scenting Laura versus Peter, even with their similar calming pheromones, provoked very different reactions in his memory. He could ask her and she would almost certainly say yes without expecting anything of him but something in him curved away from the idea. This was something Braeden could not give him.

“Do you think you’ll go back?” She asked as she held the door open for him to walk back into the hospital, “To Beacon Hills? Now that you remember who you are?”

“I-” Derek swallowed. “Not sure.”

“Why not?” she asked but her eyes flitted to the stump where his arm used to be. Derek glanced down at the missing appendage that still somehow hurt even when it wasn’t attached to him.

“They think I’m- I’m dead,” Derek said, “Might be simpler to- to-”

“That’s awful.” She said, glaring at him. “Your sisters don’t want simple, they want their brother back!”

Derek shrugged. Braeden closed her eyes and sighed. “You should write to them at least. You might not want to go back but they should know you’re alive.”

He shrugged again, not trusting himself to speak. Braeden shook her head and ushered him silently into the hospital.

***

A storm bellowed inside Derek’s head, loud and incomprehensible. It hurt, yes, the worst pain he’d felt since the war ended but even that was overshadowed by the need pulsing through him, the ache consuming his whole body.

“It’s a rut,” the words barely broke through the crashing haze in his mind but Derek recognized the voice. Braeden, beta nurse. He could hear her through the wall, through the barricade the doctors and other patients slapped together when he lost his mind. “He must be nearly recovered if his body thinks it’s time to mate.”

 _Yes_ , Derek thought. His body felt stretched to the breaking point. He needed to explode, to fuck or kill or both. _Mate_.

“Fantastic,” the doctor said in an absolute deadpan. “So glad he’s recovered enough to tear us all apart. This is why I hate Alphas.”

“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual,” Braeden said. “You’re telling me we have no fast acting suppressants on hand?”

“We have some,” another nurse told her, “but we still need to inject it.”

“Give it to me,” Braeden said.

“Nurse-” the doctor said but Braeden cut him off.

“I know this man,” she said. “He’s a friend. I just need to get close enough-”

“An Alpha in rut cannot be reasoned with-”

“I don’t intend to reason with him!” Braeden snapped. Her voice cut clear through the haze of the rut like a knife coated in ice. “I intend to stab him with this needle. Now, unless you want to take his place, get out of my way!”

They got out of her way. Derek heard the scrape of furniture across linoleum and the click of a door unlocking. He turned. The edges of his vision were blurred but he could see Braeden step carefully into his room, her arms out stretched. “Derek,” she spoke in a clear, even voice, with only the hint of fear in her warm, sugary scent. “Derek, I need you to be calm, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.

 _No threat._ Derek knew it as surely as he knew he could dispatch anyone in his way. The beta woman edged forward. He could see the needle half hidden in her palm. She was no threat.

Derek charged. Braeden made a valiant effort to dodge but he was too fast. He slammed her back against the closed door, ignoring the shouts from the people on the other side. Braeden gave a soft whimper as he nosed up against her neck, breathing in that sweet, familiar beta scent. She was warm and she was here and she smelled beautiful and… not right.

“No,” he whined softly. “Not you. You’re not… you’re not mine...”

“Derek?” he stepped back. His hands stayed clamped on her shoulders because he needed something to hold onto as the memories flooded his rut dazed mind. Memories of white, pale pink skin, dotted with brown moles, of berries and cinnamon, and whispers in the long curve of the trench. He remembered guns and barbed wire  and soft, chapped lips against his skin. Braeden’s needle pierced the skin on his neck and Derek barely felt it as he dropped down to his knees, dragging her with him.

“Derek,” she said again, “Derek, you’re- you had a mate, didn’t you?”

He nodded, or perhaps he was only shaking, letting the tears fall as they would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please review


	11. Chapter 11

The novelty of waking up and wondering where he was rather than who he was wore off quickly. Derek spent most of his time in uncomfortable slumber, never really resting. Once he remembered Stiles, everything else flooded back. All the horror of the war he had blocked out now danced behind his eyelids whenever he tried to sleep. Even the good things, Stiles pressed against him in the trenches, laughing at some stupid joke, his chapped pink lips circling around a cigarette, even those were tinged with regret and anxiety over his mate's absence.

Derek still couldn't quite remember losing his arm but Stiles must have been there when it happened. Where else would he have been, but by Derek's side? Where was Stiles now?

That question haunted him more than any memory. Stiles had been with him, or nearby, when the official record said Derek died. Hundreds of men actually died in that battle, or later succumb to their wounds. Derek always thought you knew when your mate died but he had forgotten Stiles even existed. He couldn't trust his mind, bashed and broken so many times.

If Stiles was alive, Derek could think of only three possibilities about what happened to him. First, he had lost his memory as Derek did. That seemed unlikely.

Second, he'd believed the official report that said Derek died at St. Michael's. Most people did. Braeden had no luck convincing the war department to change the lists. The US army doesn't make mistakes, a desk sergeant informed them when they went to check. He called Braeden a word that nearly caused Derek to rip his heart out. Braeden's fingers digging into his arms stopped him. She told him later pointless displays of aggression didn't impress her. "We got enough in the war," she said and left him alone on his cot.

Finally, and Derek hated himself all the more for thinking of it, Stiles might've left him. His clever mate might have seen how broken Derek was, and decided it was too much to deal with. Stiles had a family in the states. He didn't need a to be dragged down by a mate who couldn't stand for more than a couple hours without blinding headaches, let alone hold down a job. A mate that didn't even remember him.

Derek's wolf balked inside of him at the mere suggestion of his mate abandoning him. Stiles was good, better than Derek deserved for doubting him. He wouldn't just leave.

Except, the indisputable fact remained, Stiles was gone.

So what could Derek do but follow him? If Stiles was alive (he had to be alive), he would have gone home to Beacon Hills. He'd return to his father and the family they had created with Scott and Melissa McCall. Derek's sisters waited in Beacon Hills as well though Derek wasn't sure if he was worth the burden.

He ignored his doubts enough to board the steamship back to the states. Braeden walked him to the gangplank, her hand on his shoulder, trying to still his nerves. "You're sure you won't come?"

He knew the answer even before she shook her head, laughing at him. "A little late, isn't it? The ship's leaving. Besides what would your mate think of you, turning up out of nowhere with a beautiful beta nurse who saved your life on your arm?"

"He'd think I got lucky," Derek said. "Braeden-"

"No, Derek." She said. "I'm not going back there, with you or anyone. I decided that long ago."

Derek nodded. "Thank you." He said. "You-" he couldn't quite make the words come right. He doubted he would ever find the right way to tell her how grateful he was.  Braeden saved him, again, with a firm clap on his shoulder.

"Your boat's leaving," she said. "You should be on it."

"Yes," Derek said, slinging his kit over his shoulder. "Goodbye, Braeden. Thank you."

She shrugged but let out a small, mournful smile. "Goodbye, Derek. Good luck."

He was halfway up the gangplank when he heard her voice again. "Send word when you get there!" Braeden called, hands cupped around her mouth.

Derek nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

That was over six weeks ago. Derek spent two weeks on the boat being seasick only to collapse on the streets of New York. He'd recovered, so to speak, in a state hospital, skipping town before the bill came due and before the cold in his lungs subsided. He stowed away on a westward train, trading, charming or stealing what he needed to survive. Derek didn't have much to trade. An emaciated, one armed alpha who could still barely speak held very little charm so Derek stole a lot. Nothing short of divine providence kept him out of jail and inching towards California. Derek couldn't help wondering where this providence had been. Nothing intervened when his family had burned, when his arm was blown off, when his mate left him.

Derek thought often of Stiles. When the cold or hunger or the pain became too much and he wanted only death, Stiles and his sisters pushed him through. He wanted to see Laura and Cora again. He needed to know what happened to Stiles, if he'd lived, if he'd moved on.

Derek thought of Stiles too much. He imagined where his mate was, what he was doing. He'd be in Beacon Hills, with his father, if he lived. That alone felt certain. The rest left a beast clawing at Derek's stomach, anxiety that kept him from rest. Either Stiles mourned, retreated into himself as Derek had, or he'd moved on. The thought of his bright, resilient mate in pain, especially when Derek could do nothing to help him, was torture. Worse though was the image of Stiles happy with someone else. Stiles leaning on another man's shoulder. Stiles pressing his soft, smiling lips to a woman's neck scenting her. He tried to drive the images from his mind. He failed. Every thought of Stiles was tinged, contaminated by the pang of envy.

Worse though, worse than anything, was the shame. He knew he was selfish. He knew Stiles's happiness ought to come first. Stiles would mourn his loss but over a year had passed since Derek woke up in Braeden's hospital. Stiles had the right to his life, to find happiness with whoever he could.

Derek knew this but the thought gave him no joy. He endured pain and hunger and cold to return to a mate who might well rest in the arms of another. And what could he do if that were the case? Derek barely had the strength to push himself forward each day. On the rare occasions he caught a glimpse of his reflection, he did not recognize himself. He was gaunt now, scarred and broken. A shadow of the wreckage of the alpha he'd been. He couldn't fight for Stiles in this condition and, even if he could, forcing Stiles to stay with such a wretch would be beyond cruel. He didn't want his mate out of obligation or coercion. He wanted...

Derek wanted the trenches. The war had been hell but he'd had Stiles. He'd had to power to protect his men, his mate, if only from a fraction of the dangers.

Now he had nightmares, phantom pain and only one goal to keep himself alive. Getting to Beacon Hills, finding his sisters, that was all that mattered. If he found Stiles, if he deserved to have Stiles in his life, that was up to fate.

***

Fog blotted out the sun the day Derek arrived in Beacon Hills. It should have rained. Derek's home no longer felt familiar. He found the apartment they'd used before the war occupied by another family. They pointed him to another place that pointed him to a basement downtown. Derek found it empty but the scents of his family clung to the dilapidated building.

He waited outside. Returning to his sisters had been his goal for so long. From the moment he enlisted, Derek promised Laura and Cora he would make it back to them. Now that he was here, would they be better off if he'd stayed in France? Their financial situation had clearly worsened in his absence and Derek would only be another burden.

Night fell. Derek could hear shouting and laughter from the dancehalls. He'd stood up to go when he heard the hoarse, choked voice of his older sister.

She was older, far older than the years should have aged her, with heavy bags under her eyes, but it was Laura. "Derek?" She said again and Derek nodded. He couldn't think of anything to say.

Then Laura's arms were around him, bags forgotten on the stoop. His sister sobbed softly on his chest. Derek hadn't scented a beta since Braeden, since he remembered Stiles. Laura- his sister, his second mother since he was fifteen- smelled of lavender and baking bread, covered now with bitter hospital antiseptic. Did she work there or was it some new scent of sorrow?

"Laura," Derek said finally, his voice unrecognizable from weeks of disuse. "Don't cry. Please, don't- let's go inside."

She nodded, fumbling for her keys. Derek kept his arm on her shoulder. She felt thinner.

Laura got the door opened on her second try. Derek recognized some of the furniture from the old apartment. His family's scents were stronger and Derek could pick out Cora and Peter on the shabby furniture, the worn carpet. He closed his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed.

When he opened them, Laura was staring at him again. "Derek," she said his name like she couldn't believe it. "How are you here? They said- they told us you died."

She had mourned too, still mourned if the black armband on her uniform were any indication. Or maybe Laura just mourned permanently, her losses were great enough.

When he didn't answer, she moved abruptly to the kitchen. "Are you hungry?" She asked, her tone a bit too panicked to be conversational. "There's not much but we've got coffee and some rolls, I think, unless Cora took them."

"Where is Cora?" Derek asked.

Laura shrugged. "She comes and goes. Picks up jobs where she can."

Derek frowned. "She's not in school?"

Laura laughed, "Not since you-" she stopped, looking at him again. "Derek, what happened?"

_ I died.  _ "They thought I died," he said, finally saying the words he'd perfected through those long hungry weeks. "I got hurt in a battle and I nearly died. When I woke up, I couldn't remember who I was. When I did, I came home."

"Derek," Laura pulled him into a tight hug, resting her head on his shoulder. Derek let himself melt into her, at last at peace. She patted his shoulder, like she'd done when Derek was a child, when he'd hurt himself or gotten sick. That awful day when their parents died and she had pulled him back from the flames.

"I missed you." Some of hair had fallen loose from her bun, brushing his face as he held her.

"Derek," Laura swallowed, "There's more than that, isn't there? You don't have to tell me. I'm just happy you're home. You don't have to tell me anything else."

Derek shook his head. How many times had he longed for Laura's sympathetic ear in the long ears separating them? He told her everything before, why should now be different? Once he started Derek couldn't stop. He told her about the horrors of the trenches, the gas and the flames. How he found Stiles and lost him again. He told Laura about Braeden, how she'd saved his life and brought back his mind, how he'd left her behind.

"And now I'm here and I don't-" he forced another sip of coffee down his throat. "I don't know if I'm supposed to be."

Laura went white. She had listened in silence through most of his story, occasionally asking a question or clicking her tongue in sympathy, but now she grabbed his arm so quickly his coffee spilled.

"No!" Her voice was harsh, hoarse. Derek smelled smoke. "Derek, no! You belong here! We need you! Please don't talk that way."

"I'm not-" Derek swallowed. He was. He'd thought coming home, seeing Laura again, would help. "I saw so many people die. I'd be dead too, if St-"

Stiles's name hurt to say. "Maybe I should have," Derek said finally.

Laura shook her head. Tears streamed from soft brown eyes. She opened her mouth to say something else, when the door swung open.

"Fuck," The harsh voice of his little sister filled Derek's ears. Cora closed the door with her foot, rubbing bare hands together. "Fuck, it's cold." She said again.

If the years had changed Laura, Cora had been transformed by them. She was taller, no longer hunched little Alpha girl of his childhood. She wore trousers, a man's shirt and overcoat. Her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Her cheeks were red. Derek stood up.

"Are you still up-" she cut off when she saw him. She stared, open mouthed but unspeaking. Derek didn't know what to say. How do you explain to your baby sister that you're back from the dead? Sort of.

"Holy shit," Cora thought of something to say. Her voice choked a little when she said his name, "Holy shit, Derek..."

Derek didn't know how to respond to that, but Laura sighed and said "Language."

"Christ," Cora said. Her eyes traveled over him, confused, a small tinge of anger in her scent. Derek never scented his little sister often. Peter said it was the Alpha in him, recognizing Cora as a threat. Derek remembered  scenting Cora  after their parents died, after she was released from the hospital, she hadn't felt like a threat then, but now she was angry, harder then when he had left. Cora stared back at him like Derek was a problem she couldn't solve. "What happened to your arm?" She asked finally.

Derek shrugged. "There was a war."

Laura burst out laughing. Derek jumped a little at the sudden outburst of the mirth, and he saw Cora flinch when their sister sobbed between laughs. "Alphas," she shook her head and slung her arm around Derek's shoulders, pulling him toward Cora. Their younger sister flinched a little but eventually allowed the embrace. Derek even felt her hand squeeze gently on his shoulder. He was home.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live

In all the months Derek spent dreaming about his family and Beacon Hills, Peter never featured very prominently. He knew, once his memories returned, that he had an uncle but his sisters and Stiles took priority. Peter reminded him why on the second day after his return.

Derek awoke from the second restful sleep since France to a slurred drinking song echoing from the parlor. He rolled over and pulled the covers over his head.

"Laura," Peter shouted, "Laura, why is there never any food in this place?!"

Derek heard a small groan from his sister's room as Laura pulled herself out of bed. "Because you eat it," Laura didn't shout but her clipped voice shot through the thin walls anyway. "Now shut up, I need to tell you something."

"Finally snagged that Doctor of yours, eh?" Peter said with a clatter of dishes. "Well, if you think a pup will keep him there's a little procedure you should know about-"

Derek sat up. He ignored the protest in his joints and headed for the door.

"Why are you like this?" Laura asked in a small voice.

"A lifetime of disappointment, my dear. The real question is why are you not?"

"I have to tell you," she started again just as Derek reached the kitchen. Peter looked up suddenly. Blue eyes widened slightly but he betrayed no other sign of surprise.

"Hello," he said, almost conversationally.

"Shut up," Derek said. He stood next to Laura. He put his arm on her shoulder and hoped it looked like solidarity. It was but he was also worried about falling over.

Peter circled around them, eyeing Derek. "There's something different about you. I can't quite place it."

Peter remained largely unchanged. If anything the war had suited him. His beard had filled it and he'd gained a bit of fat around his lean muscles.  He was still sharp though, dangerous.

"Ah," he snapped his fingers in triumph. "You're supposed to be dead."

"I'm not."

Peter laughed, breathy, humorlessly. "No, Derek, we had a lovely funeral. The army gave us a flag. You're supposed to be dead."

Derek could feel Laura shaking beneath him. Her hand clenched tight in his shirt. He looked down at his sister's face, red with fury. "Get out!" She snarled at Peter. "Get out now!"

Peter snorted, "You've been spending too much time with your sister. No doctor sticks around for a beta who thinks she's an alpha."

"Out!" Laura shouted again.

Peter shrugged and picked up his coat from the kitchen floor. "I've business in Little Tokyo," he said, heading for the door. "Do let me know if anyone important resurrects. I'd like to speak to my wife."

He slammed the door and Laura sighed, turning to Derek.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? Peter's an asshole. That's first thing I remembered about him." Derek made a pained effort to smile. Peter was an asshole but he was also right. Derek's parents were gone. His aunt and the little cousin inside of her, gone. Stiles and Stebbins and countless soldiers were lost, why did Derek survive?

"Are you alright?" Laura asked. "Do you need-"

"I'm fine," Derek lied. "I'm going back to bed."

She looked like she wanted to argue but she only nodded. "Goodnight, Derek."

"Goodnight," Derek said but it sounded like an apology.

He went to bed but Derek didn't sleep. Instead, he lay awake listening to Laura. She did some dishes, made coffee. She coughed. Derek hadn't noticed before but Laura coughed far too often.

***

Cora, on the rare occasions she was home, told him not to worry.  "She worked the Spanish flu outbreak at the hospital," Cora said. "She wasn't even that sick but the cough stuck around. She's fine."

Derek did worry and not just about Laura. Cora wore trousers now. She made no mention of school, smoked cigarettes and only came home at odd hours with stacks of various bills, always a different amount, to hand to Laura before she disappeared again. When Derek asked Laura, she told him not to worry.

No one wanted Derek to worry. No one wanted Derek to interfere.

He wasn't capable of much interference either way. Derek hadn't realized just how malnourished he was when he was traveling. Now everything hit him like a brick. He slept constantly but never got any rest from the nightmares. He ate, after a fashion, when Laura made him but the food didn't taste like much of anything. Each morning Derek would wake vowing to start his life again. He would find Stiles, get a job, help Laura, get Cora back into school. He could never seem to manage it.

He lay in bed most days, staring at the wall. It would start with pain, in his arm or legs, pain enough that he would have to sit down just to catch his breath. Then, hours later, Laura or Peter or even Cora would come home and wake him up. Derek wasn't even aware how much time had passed.

"I can ask around, if you want." Cora told him grudgingly, "see who's hiring vets?"

"You don't have to," Derek said. The jobs Cora work required heavy lifting, at least two hands to say nothing of the ability to hear a crash without panicking. He knew about the fights of course. He could smell the blood under her fingernails moment she walked through the door. Derek had rehearsed a dozen ways to tell Cora to stop prizefighting and go back to school. He never got past the crushing realization that, without Cora's contribution, they would lose the apartment.

He thought, for a brief moment, about entering that world himself. If people would bet for a woman, why not an amputee? He remembered the German boy in No Man's Land moment later, that thin fragile life crushed in his hands. any man stepped in the ring with Captain Derek Hale wouldn't step out again. He couldn't risk that.

Derek's desire to avoid murder on his side of the Atlantic probably kept Peter alive. Peter wandered in and out of the apartment at his own leisure. As far as Derek could tell, his uncle didn't have a job. At least he didn't bring any money in. On occasion, Peter would enter and grandly place a loaf of bread or some oranges on the table, as if it were the only food left in the world.

"You talk in your sleep," Peter informed Derek one morning as he wandered into their shared bedroom.

"You're never home enough to hear me," Derek said. He turned the page of his book.

"You're asleep whenever I'm home," Peter said, "You mumble, too."

"Deepest apologies," Derek said, turning the page back. He could never remember what he just read.

"You never used to care about fashion."

"What?"

"Fashion," Peter said dryly. "You never used to care about fashion, now you're blathering on about style every time you close your eyes. Of all the things you could pick up in the trenches..."

Derek didn't hear the rest because he couldn't quite get his breath all the way in. Peter kept talking of course, while the world blurred around him. He didn't know how long he sat there after Peter left again. He couldn't move, not until Laura came home and found him staring at nothing. Derek couldn't tell her what happened. She made him get up, fixed him a cup of coffee and didn't tell him she was worried.

"It's normal," Laura told him. "I saw it all the time, after the war ended. Shell shock. It'll pass."

It didn't though. Some days were better than others but nothing felt like it had before. He felt as though the world were a train rushing past and he could not will himself to jump aboard.

***

Then Laura got sick.

She had already been sick, before Derek came home. He had arrived, it seemed, only to watch her wither away. Her cough grew worse day after day. A few months after Derek returned, she began to sleep heavily. sick upon waking, tired through the day. She started missing work, sick with fever and nausea. Derek could do little but make her as comfortable as possible. Peter disappeared and Cora was gone and night trying to earn enough money for a doctor.

"Derek," she interrupted him one spring afternoon as he read to her. Her voice was weak, hoarse from too much coughing. "Derek,"

"What do you need?" He asked urgently. "I'll get you some water."

Laura shook her head. "Your mate," she said with difficulty. "What was his name?"

"Stiles," Derek said in a whisper. He had not said that name aloud in months.

"You need to look for him," Laura said. "I want you to be happy."

"You should rest," Derek said.

Laura shook her head. "I'll be resting soon enough."

Derek winced. Laura's eyes were closed. She spoke as if every word was painful to her. "Where's Cora?"

"I don't know," Derek said.  _Out,_ Cora had said the last time he saw her, two days earlier. "Working, I guess."

Laura nodded. She looked so old. "I want to see her when she gets back," she said.

"Okay." Laura opened her eyes to glare at him.

"I mean it. I want to see her. Wake me up when she comes back."

Derek managed a weak smile. "Does that mean you're going to get some rest?”

Laura said nothing, just looked off to the side, staring at the wall. Her eyes glazed and closed. Derek fought the urge to wake her again, comforting himself with the faint beat of her heart, the shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath the blankets. The familiar scent of Laura’s beta pheromones filled the room, mixing slightly with the residue of Cora’s alpha. Derek scooted closer to the bed and lay his head down beside her, inhaling as much as he could.

He woke up, hours later, to a door creaking open. Derek jumped, as he always did upon waking, never quite certain of his surroundings. Then Laura’s scent filled his nostrils, calming him again. She was still alive.

“Shouldn’t let those candles burn when you’re sleeping, bro.” Cora said, standing behind him. “How is she?”

“The same,” Derek said, brushing his fingers through his hair. “She wants to talk to you.”

“I’ll talk to her in the morning,” Cora said. She watched Laura for a few more moments and sighed softly. “You should get some rest too, Derek. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Derek stood, fully intending to do as she said. Cora’s scent was muddled with a dozen others, a mix of Alpha, Beta and Omega, none of which Derek recognized. She held herself strangely, bruises rising on her skin.

“Where have you been?” he asked, turning back at the doorway.

“Working,” Cora said. She pulled a wad of bills out her pocket and held them up to the light. “I keep my stash under the mattress, so Peter doesn’t raid it. He stays out of here mostly.”

Derek glanced back to Laura. She looked so pale and small in the bed. He looked back to Cora but all he saw was his baby sister, twelve years old and rebellious as ever, hair unkempt with bruises on her arms. “You shouldn’t be out this late.” He said. “It’s dangerous.”

“I can handle myself,” Cora said, wiping her nose with her wrist.

“You shouldn’t be out.” Derek snapped. “I know what kind of work you do. It’s not right.”

Cora’s brown eyes narrowed. “We need the money.” She nodded to Laura on the bed. “She needs the money and you’re not getting it.”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.” Derek wanted to shout. He would have but Laura was finally asleep.

Cora snorted. “Hardly,” she said. “You think this is my first fight, big brother? I just started getting paid after you left. Laura needs this and I ain’t stoppin’ just because you want to posture.”

Derek growled, unable to stop himself. Cora just stared back, defiant as always. They watched each other for a long, tense minute. Then Laura stirred. Cora’s shoulders immediately dropped as she went to their sister. Laura rolled over without opening her eyes and her breathing evened out. Cora sat down on the chair by her bed, watching Laura with worried eyes.

Derek left.

***

The silence woke him up. Usually, he heard screams, men in trenches, in hospital beds, his family calling for help. He’d wake up with his own shouts hoarse in his throat, reaching for Laura or Brayden or Stiles, only to find no one was there.

That alone made him nervous. Derek got up, stopping only to pull on a few clothes before hurrying to Laura’s room.

He stopped in the door way. Cora knelt in front of her sister’s bed, face buried in blankets, holding Laura’s hand. She was crying.

“Cora?” _Please don’t say it. Please tell me I’m wrong._

“She’s gone,” Cora said. She looked back at Derek, her eyes and cheeks bright red. Dollar bills lay crumpled on the floor around the bed. “I finally got enough for the doctor and she’s gone.” She swore violently, grief suddenly shifting into rage. “I should have done more! I could have- I should have-“

“Cora,” he put his hand carefully on her shoulder. Cora looked for a moment like she wanted to hit him but she just looked back at Laura’s body. Derek lowered himself down next to her and pulled her close. Cora crumpled, sobbing like a child. Derek brushed his fingers against her hair, the way their mother used to. The way Laura used to.

***

Derek didn’t know how long he held his sister like that, how long they stayed by Laura’s deathbed. The hours passed in a blur, like he was back in France before his speech and memory returned. He blinked and Cora returning with the undertaker. He took a breath and they were at the wake. With each beat of his heart a year passed and the world went on without him. He got a job because he had to keep the apartment for Cora’s sake. He lost it because his mind blinked out on the site or he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave his room too often. He got another and lost it again, round and round in an infinite numbing loop.

“It was never supposed to be us, Derek, all alone,” Peter said, pouring out a bottle of moonshine into Derek’s coffee, “the last of the Hales. Laura might’ve made something of herself but not us. We should have died in the fire, prune the family tree so the rest could survive. Laura and Connor and Talia…” he took a long drink, “Marie… the pup.”

Derek watched the brown liquid swirl in his cup. Peter went on.

“It’s our fault. We didn’t know when to die. You should have stayed in France, enshrined in glory and I? I should have burned. That day- I pulled Connor’s little accident out of the flame because I was sure the others would make it. They were so strong, so perfect. I’d burn a thousand times over to bring them back.”

Derek couldn’t argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so now we know what Derek's been up to. He's been depressed and surrounded by death. 
> 
> sorry for the long wait. I have been working a ton and this is mainly a free time thing.
> 
> I have very little free time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah jeez so... trigger warning for dub con (Nogitsune/Stiles explicit but short) in first section.  
> and warning for Kate Argent in second section because Kate Argent

Stiles lay on his stomach when Nō fucked him. He bit into pillow or the sheet and let the Yakuza rut into him.

No, rut was not the correct word. An Alpha’s rut was all violent sexual instinct, a biting claim on their partner. Nō fucked Stiles the same way he cleaned his nails or drank his tea. At first, Stiles thought he’d been bored but Nō just enjoyed playing with him. It became a game between them, Nō attempting to make Stiles react, to make him cum as hard as he could, and Stiles trying his damnest to keep quiet.  

He lost more and more as their tryst went on. Stiles supposed that was inevitable, the more a person fucked you, the better they knew your body. Stiles had moaned and cried out time and again, even allowed a few guttural “Alpha”s to slip past his lips. He never gave up that last precious boundary though. He never called him Derek.

Stiles didn’t think about Derek if he could help it. In that first awful year back in Beacon Hills, Derek was all he could think about. Then Stiles made the most important discovery of his young life. If he drank enough, got in enough trouble, hung around with enough loud, stupid people, he didn’t have to think about his dead mate. He got so practiced in distractions that he only had to think about Derek right before he went to sleep, if he didn’t pass out instead.

Once he dealt with the grief of losing Derek, (and he was dealing with it, whatever Scott said) Stiles was left with an unrelenting horniness. Before he met Derek, he was resigned to lifelong celibacy. The few experiments he’d made always ended with tears or violence, or some combination of the two. No lover, man or woman, was worth the risk of his father having to identify his body.

Meeting Derek changed everything. Even in the rage and filth of the trenches, Stiles could think about a future with him. Derek wanted to be his mate. They were going to have a life together including sex and love and all the other things Stiles had convinced himself he’d be fine without.

He was fine, whatever Scott said, but it was a cruel dream to have shattered. At the time, they were being smart. There was a war going on around them and guys definitely would have noticed their commanding officer sneaking off to fuck a private. That would have meant court martial, possibly death. Besides, all Stiles really wanted then was to be close to Derek, to be able to see and scent him and know he was safe.

Now he wished he’d been stupid. They thought they’d have a life together afterwards, even with all evidence to the country. If they’d just been stupid for one measly night, Stiles could at least have the memory of how Derek felt inside him, what it meant to have sex with a mate.

All he had now was an over active imagination and a talent for lying to himself. He needed all of it. The physical differences alone were near insurmountable. Derek’s hands were bigger, rougher than Nō’s. His lover was clean shaven where his mate was practically covered in stubble. The lips that kissed him in No Man’s Land had been chapped and bruised. These kisses were painfully, damnedably soft. Nō wasn’t Derek but all Alphas had a knot and if Stiles smashed his face in the pillow and covered his nose, he could pretend.

Derek would have been nervous their first time. Stiles would have been too, the first time, but now he had enough experience that he could make Derek relax. They’d start off slow, Derek always so worried about hurting him. Stiles wouldn’t mind the build up though. They’d take hours. Stiles would want to talk if it was Derek touching him like this. He’d tell him…

He’d tell him everything.

“What is more useful when it is broken?” Nō asked, his breath hot against Stiles’ neck.

“What?” Stiles said, irritated at the intrusion into his fantasy. The force of the alpha’s orgasm had fit in perfectly but that voice could not be disguised.

“What is more useful when it’s broken?”  For whatever reason, Nō liked to ask Stiles riddles while he was inside him. Stiles wasn’t sure if he meant to test the bounds of his intelligence or merely thought it entertaining to see how stupid the beta was.

Either way, Stiles didn’t care for it. “I don’t know.”

“An egg,” Nō said and nipped at Stiles’ neck. Stiles squirmed. It wasn’t a mating mark. Nō would never want that, nor would Stiles accept it. The bites were just like the riddles, like the fucking itself. Nō just wanted a rise out of him.

Someone knocked timidly outside. “Enter,” the alpha commanded in a bored tone. Nō never let something as trivial someone stuck on the end of his dick interrupt business. He propped himself up, elbows digging into Stiles’ back. Stiles buried his face back into the pillow.

Not Derek. Not even by the most impressive stretch of his imagination. Nō was the best Stiles could do though. There were worse things, lonelier thing, than settling for someone who would have him.

***

Derek stood outside the police station, shaking. He shook a lot, usually unsteady on his legs, still over compensating for the lack of arm on his left side. This wasn’t nerves or shell shock or whatever the nurses at the V.A called in. This was fear.

Stiles had talked about his father in the trenches. Scott, brother in all but blood, and Melissa, the second mother, also featured prominently but The Sheriff of Beacon Hills reserved a special place of pride and anxiety in his son’s heart. He’d brag about the early promotion and invaluable leadership on the civilian front to the boys in the trenches and worry privately to Derek about diets and hair trigger low lives.

If Stiles was alive, he’d be back with his father. If Derek wanted to find Stiles now, this was the place.

He’d been standing outside the police station for nearly two hours. He told Cora he was going to look for work, just as she passed out, exhausted on the sofa. She didn’t know about Stiles. Derek didn’t know how to explain, when it didn’t even make sense in his own head.

He had a mate, a sharp, brave, intoxicating mate that got him through a war and Derek hadn’t seen Stiles for three years. First he’d been sick, stuck in France without any memory of who he was. After the memories came back, Derek still had to recover and figure out how to make the long journey back to Beacon Hills which half killed him again. Then Laura died and it was months before Derek could function, even at the mediocre levels he had before.

Now he stood alone, terrified of a building.

He waited too long. How do you explain three years of absence? Stiles would never forgive him. He shouldn’t forgive him.

“Derek? Derek Hale?”

Derek flinched at the sudden sound of his name, spoken in a terrifyingly familiar voice.

She looked like she stepped straight out of 1913. That burned spice scent, like the street vendors of Little Tokyo, filled his nostrils just as it had when he turned sixteen.

“Kate.”

She grinned at him. “I heard you got zotzed by some kraut!” Her appraising gaze fell on the empty sleeve where his arm used to be. “Not quite chilled off yet, hey?” She gave the stump a hard, jovial slap, her eyes sparkling. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Derek lied. “What- what are you doing here?” he forced himself to speak slowly. Since Laura’s death the speech impediment that plagued him in France had started to return. He did not want to stutter in front of Kate Argent.

She shrugged, pushing her dirty blonde hair, now fashionably curled, away from her face. “The Fuzz like to call me in now and again. I think the Sheriff’s sweet on me. Likes to see how I’m doin’ every time some mug stubs his toe.”

Derek nodded. Kate had a similar reputation when he knew her. His father had warned Derek to stay away from loose women like Kate Argent. That looseness, the easy charm of her, was exactly what appealed to Derek. Kate hadn’t wanted an Alpha mate, wouldn’t try to trap him into marriage. She’d eagerly accepted his proposition, no strings attached, and Connor Hale never got to see if she caused any trouble at all.

“My god,” Kate said, her eyes traveling up and down his body. “You have grown up, haven’t you? How long has it been?”

“Eight years.” Derek said. “Before the-” he coughed, “Before the- Before the fire.”

“The fire, of course,” she said in a soft, breathy sigh, “Your parents… I wish I could have- Father sent me away the day after it happened. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you.”

Derek shrugged.  “Th-thanks.”

If Kate noticed the stutter, she gave no sign. “I heard about your sister too. Laura, wasn’t it? Or was the little Alpha?”

“Laura,” he said.

Kate nodded. “The Spanish Flu, wasn’t it? Every one was coming down with it a couple years back. Awful stuff. Did she suffer terribly?”

Derek didn’t answer.

“Oh, I apologize, Derek,” she continued, congenially, “it must be quite painful still. Poor girl. Well…” she paused, looking Derek over again. “at least she got to see her brother resurrected. Quite the trick. Curious,” She smiled, “you’ve lost so much, Derek… everyone around you seems to… but you’re still here. Fascinating.”

Derek swallowed, managing a quick glance at the police station. The world expanded and contracted around them. He tried to make himself breathe, calm himself like Braeden taught him, but the air never seemed to reach his lungs.

“Derek?” Kate said, her eyes bright, “Are you ill?”

 _Yes._ “I should go,” Derek blurted, afraid to say anything more. There were too many scents out here, too much light and noise. He wanted away from Kate’s burning pheromones, her wide, easy smile and eager questions.

“Of course. My brother- you remember Christopher, don’t you, Derek?” Barely, Christopher was nearly fifteen years Derek’s senior. “He gets absolutely crazy if I’m a minute late. It was so good running into you.”

Then she put her hands on his shoulders, leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Derek stood stalk still, watching her walk away but not really seeing anything beyond the blur of colors surrounding him.

He didn’t know quite how long he stood there but the sun was low when he finally came back to himself. He hurried back to the apartment, trying to keep his thoughts contained within himself, to not lose control of his body again.

Only back in his room could Derek finally draw a full breath. Why did he have to go to the police station? He wanted his mate but what good would he possibly be now? He left a trail of bodies where ever he went and now he could even have a conversation, let alone keep anyone safe.

 _I should have stayed in France,_ Derek thought and for the first time he didn’t think of Braeden. He didn’t think of stolen kisses in the trenches, Stiles’s fingers stroking his arms, the sweet warm scent of his mate.

He thought on the mud in St. Mihiel, the heat and flash of bombs and bullets, the screams of the dying and the stink of the dead. He should have stayed in France.

***

 Cora Hale smelled like her brother. Stiles didn’t know what to do with that fact but it made his fingers shake, his nose twitch greedily.

 He’d watched her fight before, under the less than complimentary title of Alpha Bitch. She moved like Derek, less formally but the same strategy of grabbing and eliminating the opponent Derek used in battle. Yet, when he got close enough to separate her smell individually, she was a beta. Clearly a Hale but unmistakably a beta.

She was sitting alone in one of Nō’s clubs, looking wholly out of place in a modest dress and none of her Alpha Bitch swagger, asking questions about Rhys, the soldier helping Nō smuggle opium into Beacon Hills. Stiles just reacted, sat down and started talking to her, trying like hell to get her to trust him because…

Because she was Derek’s sister. Pathetic as it might be, Cora was the last living tie to Stiles’ mate and he needed to be a part of her life. The moment he caught a whiff of her scent, a toggle flipped in his mind. Cora was Scott or Melissa or his father. Family.

So now he was meeting her in dark corners of speakeasies to slip stolen bits of Nō’s correspondence across the table. She glanced up at him, with her brother’s eyes. “What is this?”

“Manifest from one of the suppliers in Shanghai.” Stiles was careful never to use Nō’s name.

“It’s in Japanese,” said Boyd, another Alpha who worked as Cora’s partner on the opium case. “Can you translate it?”

Stiles shook his head. “I picked up a few symbols but I can’t tell you exactly what it says.” He pointed at the crumpled sheet of paper. “That’s harbor, and that’s Beacon Hills.”

“So they’re bringing it in by boat,” Cora said. “Predictable. Do you know when?”  
“He ships a lot through there, no telling what exactly.” Stiles said. “I know this one’s important though. He’s been mad about it. It’s been delayed twice with police interference.”

“Is this dangerous for you?” Boyd asked, his brow furrowing. “Do they suspect?”

Stiles shook his head. “They don’t pay much attention to me.” He said. _I’m just the boss’s bitch._

“We’ll take it to Yukimura, see what she says.” Cora said. She looked at Stiles, that long appraising way that reminded him so damn much of her brother. “Thanks.”

Stiles swallowed. “I’ll try and get a date for it. We could do a stake out.”

Cora shook her head. “Sorry, we can’t risk you,” she said. “If Boyd and I are caught, we can make up some excuse or fight our way out-”

“Hey, I can fight my way out of anything,” Stiles said. “How do you think I survived the war?”  
_Tell me about your brother. Tell me anything, please, I had less than a year and it’s not enough. Tell me about Derek._

“We know you can fight,” Cora said, clearly annoyed at having to sooth his ego, “but you’re the best leak we’ve got in their operation. You get caught and that ends. They’d probably kill you.”

“Fine,” Stiles said, aware of how petulant he sounded. Cora watched him silently. She didn’t trust him. Stiles couldn’t blame her. “That’s all I got,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’ll work,” Cora said, standing up. Boyd joined her. “We’ll have Yukimura look it over. Thanks.”

“Don’t get too drunk tonight,” Boyd advised as the two Alphas slunk from the bar. Stiles watched them until they disappeared into the crowd and scoffed. He had no intention of drinking too much tonight.

He would drink the exact right amount.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally caught up with Sweetest Subterfuge.   
> To learn more about Cora Hale's investigation into the Beacon Hill's opium trade and how she met up with Stiles see chapter 9 and chapter 11 of Sweetest Subterfuge. Actually read the whole thing because I like it and you get to see more Derek after the war and a bit of Stiles and Scott and Allison and a lot of Lydia. 
> 
> And now a brief word on Kate Argent.
> 
> Kate Argent totally set the Hale Fire in this universe and Derek doesn't know. I don't know if Derek will ever find out about it because frankly he has enough survivor's guilt as it is without knowing his first time killed most of his family.
> 
> Kate Argent fascinates me. I think they killed her off way too early on Teen Wolf, she could have been a really interesting villain. She's particularly fun in this instances because I have effectively erased her canon character motivation. If one removes fantastic racism, there is no reason to set the fire at all... except that she wanted to.
> 
> Kate Argent likes to watch other people. Happiness or sorrow, the more intense the emotion, the more it interests her. She fucked Derek because she found him physically attractive but she had no interest in being in a relationship. Rather she decided to see what would happen to him if he lost everything he cared about. Kate was from a rich, powerful, criminal family which in her mind meant she could basically do anything she felt like. It wasn't anything Derek did or didn't do, he just happened to be on her radar. So she set the fire when Derek was out of the house, basically to see his reaction. Laura's survival was incidental. Kate just couldn't wait long enough to get the rest of the family trapped inside. Peter saved Cora (read Sweetest Subterfuge) and you can figure out the rest...
> 
> Gerard realized what Kate did and shipped her off to France where she'd attract less attention in the countryside. There she basically pulled the same shit on a smaller scale, messing with people's lives for the hell of it. In this chapter, she's back in BH for no particular reason, just visiting and decides on a whim to fuck with Derek for old times sake. If I ever feel like I can do it justice, I'd like to expand these ideas a bit from Kate's POV, though I'd have to think of a more convoluted plot just to confuse myself.
> 
> The Kate section takes place a couple years before Sweetest Subterfuge. Really, I just wanted to expand on Derek's logic for making no attempt to contact Stiles. A combination of PTSD, survivor's guilt and general self loathing, aided and abetted by Peter and Kate. It's horrible and unhealthy but it's where Derek's head is unfortunately. Hopefully, I got the message across. 
> 
> BIG THINGS IN NEXT CHAPPIE  
> please review


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence, mentions of non con

Stiles woke, he didn’t know why, to the sound of Scott’s voice saying his name at the bottom of the stairs. It was mid afternoon and he pulled himself out of bed without really meaning to. He wandered downstairs and recognized Allison’s voice.

“tied her to the bed and they’re going to force her to accept that awful man as-” the pretty brunette shuddered a little at the thought. “I promised Lydia I’d warn Cora before Mr. Martin can have her arrested.” She paused a moment, clearly nervous about what she had to say next. “I know you worry about Stiles but he knows that part of the city better than I do and we need to find her.”

“Yeah, of course,” Scott said. “I’ll get him.”

“Don’t have to,” Stiles said. “I heard everything. Who are we looking for?”

“An alpha prize fighter,” Allison said, the worry on her pretty face lifting slightly. “Her name is Cora Hale.”

 _Of course, it is._ Scott heard it too, unsubtly turning to Stiles as he repeated the name of his brother’s dead mate. “I know her,” Stiles said. “Don’t know exactly where she lives but we can narrow it down.”

Allison didn’t waste any time. “Hurry,” she said, already turning to the door. Scott and Stiles followed at her heels. Stiles, feeling his brother’s anxious gaze on him, determinedly stared ahead.

“Hale?” Scott repeated in a false whisper.

“His sister,” Stiles said, through clenched teeth. “We’ve been… working together for a couple weeks.” Scott didn’t know about Nō or opium investigations or any of the other ways Stiles made money. Stiles had made sure of that. He’d have happily kept the adorably naïve beta in the dark for the rest of their lives. Nothing ever worked out for him.

“Does she know-?”

“No.” Stiles said.

“Stiles,” Scott started, in that insufferable pitying way of his.

“She’s a good person and her mate’s in trouble,” Stiles said, moving faster to catch up with Allison. “Everything else is irrelevant. We need to help her.”

 _And if I selfishly use her problems to worm my way into my dead mate’s home and maybe steal a picture from his grieving family,_ Stiles thought. _Well, I’ll burn in hell happy._

They started at Lahey’s where Isaac, the youngest and only surviving Lahey son, could not maintain eye contact with Allison or Scott but told Stiles that Cora usually went home in a southern direction. “When she doesn’t sleep above the bar or go north,” he added and at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

They split up as much as possible, circling back to met with each other every half hour or so. Stiles wormed the most information, calling in a few debts from his pool hustling days and some of the scraps he’d picked in the early months after the war. Allison got some decent information but mostly a bunch of patronizing concern about the nice beta girl having no business with an alpha woman. She grew more and more agitated with every street they searched, no doubt worrying about her Omega friend.

At last, someone pointed them to a dilapidated brick apartment building. The landlady scowled and pointed them to a side entrance. Allison went first, rapping hard on the door. Scott took the rear, glancing over his shoulder for signs of trouble on the street.

Stiles just stood, focusing on breathing. His heart slammed against his chest, so loud he couldn’t believe no one else heard it. Maybe they did. Stiles wanted to break down the door, ensconce himself in Derek’s old home, and steal every physical memento he could, just to have some part of him to hold. He wanted to run back to his father’s house and barricade the door because if he acted on his obsession any further, he’s risk losing the only person in his life who actually knew his mate existed. His brain couldn’t choose a direction so he just stood, waiting for Cora to answer the door.

She did, after an interminable wait, and the scent staggered him. The burned sugar smell saturated the little apartment. Stiles expected it- hell, he’d hoped for it- but he never imagined it would be this strong.

It only got stronger inside. Allison explained the situation to Cora but Stiles couldn't understand what she was saying. The scent drowned out everything. Logically, he knew that scent lingered, especially in a person’s home. Even now, over 10 years after her death, Claudia Stilinski's fresh rain memory lingered on her quilts and in her chair by the window. Stiles woke to Derek's scent in his nostrils, mixed with fire and gun powder. He knew it was only a cruel olfactory prank, playing with memory and longing. This overwhelmed him, blurred his goddamn vision.

 _Focus, damn it_ , Stiles blinked hard. _This may be the only time you're here._

He looked around the small parlor, noting the very old, shabby furniture. A few pictures dotted the walls or stood on the end tables. Stiles recognized the younger version of Derek, staring blankly from behind the glass. Cora stood next to him in most of the photographs, somehow managing to look more uncomfortable than her brother. An older girl stood with them, probably the beta sister, and the parents usually stood behind. Some of the frames were burnt around the edges. Other pictures had other people, most bearing a slight resemblance to the Hale siblings. There weren't enough though that he could take one without it being missed.

"Is this about Nō?!" Cora demanded in a shout. Stiles jumped a little. He'd forgotten anyone else was there. "Do they know about Lydia?!"

 _Oh right, we're trying to save a woman's life._ Guilt surged through him. "No,"

He said over Cora's interrogations. "It's nothing to do with them. I just – I know Allison."

Cora looked him up and down, with trademark suspicion, but didn't ask anything else. She turned back to Allison. "What happened?"

"“Aiden Blake,” Allison said and Stiles brain clicked inexplicably. “or that damn twin of his. They told Mr. Martin about you and he’s got her tied up, in heat-”

“Where?” Cora growled, inhuman like the crazed Alphas of pulp novels, her eyes glowing red.

“At the house-“ Cora headed to the door with Allison following. “He’s called the police. You need to get out of the city.”

Cora ignored her, flinging the door open and something crashed behind them. Where the cops here already? Stiles turned and all the air went out of the room.

He stood sculpture still, surrounded by pieces of coffee mug. He looked thinner, older than the five years that elapsed since the war. His left arm was gone but it was him. He stared at Stiles.

“Derek,” Stiles breathed. His body moved without permission, like Derek was a magnet pulling him in. Everything else vanished. Stiles hugged his mate as close as possible, close enough that he should have passed through.

He didn’t. Derek was real and alive and Stiles didn’t know or care how it happened. He pressed his face into Derek’s chest and breathed him in, a real scent, not residue or a memory, but the actual, genuine article. He was dimly aware of his own voice, spouting nonsense. “You’re alive! Oh my god, you’re alive! I thought you were dead- I thought you were-“ he sobbed, unable to stop it, “Derek! Derek, Derek, Derekderekderekderek-” he couldn’t make himself stop saying Derek’s name. He never wanted to.

Derek didn’t hug back at first. He lifted his arm tentatively, like he was frightened Stiles would vanish at the first touch. His fingers pressed gently into Stiles’ hair, slowly exploring, pulling Stiles closer. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “Stiles, I’m sorry.”

Stiles kissed him. Not because he didn’t want to hear Derek’s voice or because he didn’t need explanations. He’d need a lot of explanations very soon but he’d wanted to kiss Derek for five years. Derek kissed him back, like a man draining his canteen in the heat of battle.

Someone banged on the door. It wasn’t a knock. It was a battering ram.

  In one rapid motion, Derek shoved Stiles behind him as police officers swarmed into the apartment. Everyone started shouting except Cora who punched the first officer that laid a hand on her. Stiles caught a brief flash of red in Derek’s eyes before he crossed to help his sister.

“Sir, you need to step back!” An officer raised his hands as his colleagues attempted to subdue Cora. “We’re taking her into custody.”

“On what charge?” Derek demanded, his hands were curled into fists. Stiles could feel his rage.

“Rape, sir,” The officer said with an ugly glare in Cora’s direction. Stiles didn’t recognize the voice but the badge read Beacon Hills Sheriff Department.

“Fuck you!” Cora shouted slamming another deputy into the wall.

 _And assaulting an officer,_ Stiles saw with a grimace, _Three officers._

“That’s absurd, she was here all night-” His voice cut off as the first deputy loosed his truncheon from his belt and hit Cora hard in the face.

Derek roared and dashed for his sister. For a spilt second, Stiles remembered a starless night in France and a German soldier with a bloodstained knife. Derek made that sound and bones broke.

 _That was war._ A cold voice, not his own, spoke in his head. _This is Beacon Hills and they will take him away. They will take him._

“Derek!” Scott caught Stiles’s arm before he could join the fray but his voice distracted Derek enough for the deputy to get a hit in, and another, and another. Stiles made a noise, something between a squeak and a sob, entirely unintentional. Derek caught his eye before the deputy pushed him up against the wall. His eyes were hazel again, like an apology.

Only when Derek had been pushed out the door, and Cora, still fighting, dragged after him, could Stiles actually hear Scott’s urgent whispers.

“-saw the badges. They came from The Sheriff’s department. We can help him better without fighting.”

“I can’t lose him again,” the words tumbled out of Stiles’ mouth as he kept struggling against his brother’s grip. Scott had his arms tight around Stiles’ chest, unyielding.

“You won’t.” Scott promised. “We’ll talk to the Sheriff. He can help. Stiles, you have to calm down.”

How many times had Scott told him that, those exact words, over the years? Against all odds, Stiles made himself breath. Scott’s grip loosened but didn’t release.

“They came from The Sheriff’s department,” Scott said again, “but they didn’t read any charges. They didn’t recognize us. There’s no way your father signed off on this. We need to find him.”

“Let me go,” Stiles said, his voice hoarse. “I’m fine now.”

Scott let him go. Stiles clamped down on the impulse to race after the paddy wagon. Scott was right. Dad wouldn’t stand for deputies breaking down a door and arresting people solely on the word of some business man with a grudge. So the deputies were acting on someone else’s orders. Maybe they’d been planning a quick whack and only stopped due to the four unexpected witnesses.

Meaning they’d just sent Derek and Cora to be shot in some dark alley.

Stiles made himself breathe, made himself focus before the panic flushed everything out. Derek needed him calm. Derek needed Stiles to figure out a way to help him.

“Okay, Dad’s on the day shift now,” he said and Scott nodded encouragingly. “He’ll help.”

He felt like a child, running to Daddy when a catastrophe got too big to handle.

Allison reached in her purse and gave Scott a crisp bill. “Take a cab to the station,” she instructed. “You might beat them to the station.”

Stiles made it to the door in two steps while Scott hesitated.

“You’re not coming?” he said to Allison.

She shook her head. “I have to help Lydia,” she said. “Cora knows where she lives. I’ll meet you there when you get them out.”

Stiles went out into the street to Hale a cab. He didn’t want to see Scott kiss her goodbye.

***

Sheriff Stilinski sat behind his desk, looking exhausted. “You want me to release two prisoners, both of whom you witnessed assaulting my deputies?”

“Yes,” Stiles said.

“Because neither of them should have been arrested in the first place,” Scott interjected immediately. “I mean, you didn’t even know it happened until they brought it in. They sure as hell don’t have a warrant.”

Stiles took a small moment to appreciate the difference between himself and Scott. They’d both grown up as the son of a cop. Both of them had inside knowledge of the justice system but Stiles used his to slide under police radar while Scott developed an unaccountable respect for procedure.

“Scott,” The Sheriff sighed, “Most cops in this town could give half a fart about a warrant, especially in that neighborhood.”

“But you care,” Scott countered. “You’ve fired guys for less.”

The Sheriff grimaced, clearly regretting his own integrity. “The woman’s a problem,” he said, looking over the arrest report. “An Alpha accused of raping a Omega heiress. I release her and Martin will probably make trouble. Hell, the papers might just do it for him.”

“She shouldn’t have been arrested.” Stiles said.

“Was she intimate with the girl?”

Stiles swallowed. Cora hadn’t exactly denied the charges. “That’s a stupid law,” he said, for want of a better argument.

“And I am sworn to uphold every stupid law in this county,” he sighed and looked closely at his sons. “I don’t like it. You both know I don’t like it but if I slip up they’ll replace me and it’ll go worse for people like her.”

Stiles ground his teeth. He knew his father had a reputation for being soft on undesirables, meaning anyone without the right predilections, the white skin color and at least a thousand dollars in the bank. They, the people will all three requirements, had been looking for an excuse to toss him since a month after he got the job. They’d replace Tom Stilinski with people who’d enforce more than just the law, but the prejudices that created it.

Any other day, Stiles could accept that, however grudgingly. Not now. Not with Derek only a few rooms away, locked in a cement cage.

“I need you to let them go,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Please, Dad.”

His father peered at him. “Why?” he asked, with the practiced measure of a parent who’d found it best to have all the information he did not want.

“Derek,” it felt strange to actually speak his name in front of his father. “He’s my mate.”

The Sheriff took off his reading glasses and watched Stiles without expression. “Your mate,” he said after a long pause.

“Yeah,” Stiles kept his eyes on his father. Scott stepped closer in solidarity.

The Sheriff sighed. “Damn it.” He stood up and walked around the desk, pulling Stiles into a tight hug. “We’re going to have a talk about this,” he said. “About what information necessitates immediate disclosure.”

Stiles laughed and it only sounded a little like a sob. “You waited how long to tell me about Melissa?”

“That’s not pertinent at this time,” his father stepped back. “Alright, they’re released as soon as one of us comes up with a plausible reason why.”

“Sheriff?” Stiles’ heart stopped momentarily until he recognized Jordan Parrish, an idealistic deputy with the useful kill of voluntary hearing loss. “I’m sorry, there’s a woman here who wants-“

“That will be all, young man,” she nudged Parrish aside with her shiny black cane. She sat without invitation, arranging her long black skirts around her. “Now,” she said, the silver streaks in her bright red hair glinting from the afternoon sun. “I am here to secure the release of Cora and Derek Hale.”

Stiles blinked. The old woman stared back, smiling. Scott opened his mouth only to close it again. She tapped her cane against the floor expectantly.

“Alright, Ma’am,” The Sheriff said after a small breath. “And who are you exactly?”

“Lorraine DeBaugh Martin,” she opened up her purse. “How much is the bail?”

“Bail hasn’t been set,” The Sheriff frowned.

“You’re Lydia’s mother?” Scott asked, staring.

Lorraine DeBaugh Martin arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. “Grandmother, you flattering boy. Will five hundred dollars do for the both of them?”

“We aren’t in the habit of pawning off our suspects,” The Sheriff said with a bristle.

“Suspects,” she scoffed. “My son has an undue bias against Cora Hale. She’s never troubled my granddaughter in any way. Now, as for the bail, I shall err on the side of caution…” she reached in her bag and pulled out another stack of bills. “A thousand for the pair of them! More that reasonable.”

“Mrs. Martin, are you attempting to bribe a government official?” The Sheriff frowned.

Stiles glared at him. He never understood his father’s devotion to honor and service. Reputation was important. Turning down a cool grand for something he was gonna do anyway? That was crazy.

 “Sir, I am attempting to secure the release of two people wrongfully imprisoned here. I’ve found money a satisfying lubricant for such affairs but if it’s not I will remind you that Mr. Hale was merely defending his pack. No Alpha man has ever served time for defending his pack. The charges against his sister are trumped up poppycock. I am Lydia Martin’s grandmother. I have no interest in protecting the woman who compromised her. Yet, here am I am, as you say, attempting to bribe a government official on her behalf.”

“Bribing a government official is a felony, Ma’am.”

“Your words, Sheriff.”

The Sheriff opened his mouth again and Stiles cleared his throat very loudly. His father glared at him but sighed. “In light of your account, ma’am, I will temporarily release the Hale siblings into your custody… no bail required,” he added with emphasis. “On the condition they return within the week to file reports on the assault on my deputies, I can release them to you now.”

Lorraine DeBaugh Martin stood up. “Thank you, Sheriff, that will be most satisfactory.”

Stiles didn’t wait for the others. He managed to keep himself from sprinting across the bullpen but it was a near thing.

Derek sat on a small bench in the holding cell. He stood when he saw Stiles.

“Are you hurt?” Stiles asked when he reached the bars, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

“We’re alright,” Derek said. They weren’t. Cora had bruises forming on her face and neck, and she looked about ready to claw out of her skin. Derek had bruises too. He stared at Stiles, his face gaunt with fear and grief and time. He looked even thinner than he had in the war. Stiles had felt bones when they hugged back at the apartment. At least he wasn’t in irons like Cora. The Deputies had apparently given up on cuffing a one armed man.

Stiles stepped aside as his father approached with the key. He was dimly aware of other people talking: his father, Cora and Lorraine DeBaugh Martin, but he couldn’t have told anyone what they said. He stared at Derek, working very hard to breathe and keep still ant the same time. He only tuned back in when his father said “Mr. Hale?” and Derek looked like someone just pulled a gun on him.

“Sir?”

The Sheriff kept a firm eye on Derek as he released Cora from the handcuffs. “You are also being released,” Stiles would have to have a talk with his dad about how ominous that sounded. “Come back in a week.”

“Yes, sir.” Derek nodded, looking petrified and followed Cora out of the cell.

Stiles wanted to jump him again. In the past hour, he’d gone from plotting to steal Derek’s picture from his grieving family to seeing him, real and alive. He had questions. Of course, he had so many questions but he could ask them later. For now, he stuck to Derek’s side. Brushing shoulders and leaning against him like they had in the trenches. It was enough for now. It was more than he ever thought he’d have again.

 “I’ve a coach waiting,” Lorrain DeBaugh Martin said, “it won’t accommodate all of you.” She frowned at the small troop once they’d left the station.

“Go,” Derek said to Cora, briefly tearing his gaze away from Stiles, “We’ll catch up.”

She went without saying goodbye. Stiles couldn’t blame her. He’d have done the same. Beside him, Derek brushed his fingers over Stiles' palm. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna make this longer but it's like 15 fuckin pages and frankly, I need comments now.   
> For more on Cora/Lydia read Sweetest Subtefuge, also just updated.   
> Next chapter; ALL THE PORN


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah this was so long coming!
> 
> get it?

For a half second after Cora disappeared into the black coach to go save Lydia, Derek allowed himself the smallest indulgence of touching Stiles’ hand. He knew it was a bad idea, like rolling over in bed for five more minutes after the alarm went off. Any deliberate touch would haunt him for the rest of his days. Bad enough he’d let Stiles embrace him back at the apartment, soaking that cinnamon scent into his clothes.

Derek missed him so much.

He became suddenly aware of The Sheriff watching him very closely. Derek put his hand in his pocket

“Scott, grab a taxi,” the Sheriff said in a very tired voice. Scott cast an apologetic glance at Stiles and set off at brisk trot.

Stiles stepped forward, “Dad-” but his father raised a silencing palm.

“I can’t leave the station while I’m on duty,” he said. “I’d appreciate if you kept out of trouble, son.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, with a guilty swallow.

The Sheriff nodded and turned to Derek. “Mr. Hale?”

“Sir?” Derek didn’t know exactly what to expect, exactly what the Sheriff knew. He tried to think back to all the stories Stiles related about this man in the trenches. Nothing sprung to mind to indicate that he’d be fine with a one-armed man as his son’s mate. Never mind that Derek couldn’t hold down a job or protect anyone he cared about.

The sheriff offered his hand and shook Derek's awkwardly. "Remember," he said, "you and your sister, back at the station to file the reports, within a week. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I do not want to get a warrant, Mr. Hale." He would though. Derek saw that in his eyes. How much did he know? Stiles must have told him something. The sheriff didn't look particularly susceptible to bribes and why else would Stiles follow them to the station. Cora had been accused of raping an omega, the worst crime an alpha woman could commit. Derek had punched a police officer, four police officers, several times. Yet he was a free man not a hour later.

"No, Sir." He said, as all this flashed through his brain.

The Sheriff gave him a long hard look. "Take care of yourselves."

"Thanks, Dad," Stiles managed a small smile. Derek thought he might pass out.

The Sheriff gave a curt nod and headed back into the station.

"That could have been worse," Stiles said, mostly to himself.

Derek was saved from responding by the timely arrival of Scott, with a cab. Concern for Cora and Lydia only just over whelmed his urge to run and hide in his room. They climbed in together. Scott gave the driver an address that Derek had no idea how he obtained and they were off.

Since returning from the dead, Derek had become a connoisseur of awkward silences. This one beat every reunion of old friends or family, every breakfast after one of his nightmares woke the entire building, every interview where the army insisted dead men didn’t come back. They were all painfully aware of the driver in the front seat, able to listen and report on any incriminating conversation. Scott alternated concern glances between his brother and Derek. Stiles stared directly at Derek, fidgeting slightly. Derek, despite his better judgement, couldn’t keep his eyes off Stiles.

“Your hair is longer,” Derek said because someone had to say something. He regretted in immediately because Stiles smiled a little and brushed the slightly unkempt brown locks back over his head.

“Yeah,” he said, “I kept it buzzed in the war but now…” he trailed off.

“It’s good.” Derek said.

Stiles said nothing but went a little pink. More than his hair had changed. He didn’t look older, seventeen if he was a day. His pale skin had darkened slightly but not enough for a real tan. The brown moles and freckles were still in the same place but he seemed tired, more reckless, especially around the eyes.

“What happened to you,” Scott gave an apologetic shrug to Stiles’ glare but pressed forward, “after the war, I mean?”

There it was. Derek swallowed. He’d known he’d have to answer that question the moment he smelled Stiles, real Stiles and not just the memory, in the apartment.

He decided to stick to bare facts, the kind that wouldn’t land him back in a jail cell. “A nurse found me at St. Mihiel. She saved my life but I couldn’t remember anything. Nothing about the war or-“ he could quite keep from glancing up at Stiles who had started shaking just a little, “or who I was. It took months before they came back, over a year before I was healthy enough to chance the trip home.”

“How long have you been-”

“Scott,” Stiles cut him brother off with a glare and Scott fell silent. He didn’t look apologetic though, only watched Derek warily.

Derek didn’t blame him.

“Your destination, sirs,” the driver said with a nod. Scott fished a coins from his pocket for tip and they hurried onto the street.

The other coach had already arrived. A black maid helped Lorraine DeBaugh Martin down onto the cobblestone.

“Your sister and the Argent girl-“ The matron said to Derek and pointed a withered finger through the swinging black gate, “They already went inside.”

Scott immediately took off into the house. Derek and Stiles moved to follow but froze Mrs. Martin slammed her cane on the cobblestones.

“Must every young person charge in everywhere?” she demanded. “Help me up the steps, for God’s sake and we might end this without anyone heading to the morgue!”

Derek glanced at Stiles. He shrugged and moved to help the old woman. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, taking an arm.

“Shame created this nonsense,” she said, stepping towards the house, “it’ll end it as well, at least this latest skirmish.”

Nonplussed, Derek took her other arm and they entered the house.

Since Cora started bring Lydia home, living openly as mates in the confines of their apartment, Derek had begun to recognize her scent. Before, the lavender of Lydia was simply another run of the mill Omega scent that seemed to follow Cora, always stinking a little of heat.

This wasn’t that. The house stunk with Omega heat, like they’d painted the walls with it. It only grew stronger as they ascended the stairs. Derek covered his nose instinctively. Heat pheromones never affected him as much as other alphas said it would but this felt obscene. Like he was somehow invading Lydia’s privacy.

Finding her tied to her bed, soaked in her own slick, groaning under his sister, definitely qualified. Cora lay on top of her mate, kissing Lydia deep enough to pass through her. Derek immediately averted his eyes.

Connor Hale had explained heats just after Derek’s first rut. Omegas needed skin on skin contact to satisfy their need to mate, especially when a knot was unavailable. Heats, left unattended, caused intense suffering. Derek supported Cora and her omega mate but he’d never anticipated seeing them like this. 

Another woman, a beta with jet black hair coming undone from her pins, tried to surpass a shouting, chubby Alpha man to get to Lydia’s bonds. Scott was busy fighting a large, muscular alpha, attempting to keep him from the women on the bed. Another identical alpha, had his hand on Cora’s shoulder, pulling her away.

 “Enough!” Everything froze at Mrs. Martin’s shout. Even Cora glanced briefly over his shoulder.

“M-mother?” The fat alpha’s mouth plopped open.

“Enough of this, Harold.” She said. “You will cease this unconscionable display immediately. I am ashamed of you!”

“You can’t be serious, Mother, this-“ He gestured uselessly at Cora and Lydia. His mother cut him off with a raise of her gloved hand.

“You may very well have lost your daughter today, Harold,” she snapped, “Continue and you will lose your mother as well, I promise you.”

“Mr. Martin-” One of the Alpha twins, the one closest to the bed, cut in. “You must regain control-”

“Harold,” Lorraine spoke in a softer voice, “You know this is wrong. This is beastly.”

The fat alpha looked at his mother, then back to Cora and Lydia, and back to the mother. He bit down on his lip and made a grunting noise of assent.

“You can’t be serious!” The twin who had been fighting Scott nearly shouted with disbelief. He cradled his arm, looking much more disheveled than Scott.

“Go,” said Harold, sounding rather like a petulant child.

Everyone tensed, waiting to see the Alpha twins response. “Very well,” the other twin said, straightening a little. “Aiden,” he jerked his head at the door.

“She’s mine, Ethan!” his brother snarled, glaring at Lydia.

“Go,” Derek heard himself echo Harold Martin. He stepped further into the room, feeling his eyes go red. “Now.”

The other Alpha glared, clearly sizing Derek up. _Don’t test it_. Derek had felt it lurking beneath his skin ever since he remembered who he was, ever since the war finished for him. He’d killed before, in the dark hell of No Man’s Land, crushed the life out of another human being for harming his mate. That same violence, unacceptable in the peace of Beacon Hills, now surged up at these men daring to threaten his family.

He bared his teeth but allowed his brother to lead him away. The room fell silent, except for Cora’s small, tender whisper to her mate. “It’s alright. It’s alright.”

“Please,” Lydia’s voice was almost unrecognizable, so hoarse and pained. She must have screamed for hours. “Core, please.”

Cora spoke louder, clearly addressing the room though she never looked away from Lydia. “If you don’t want to see, you should leave now.”

She didn’t wait, bending down to kiss Lydia again. Lydia gave an appreciative moan.

“Good god,” Harold Martin grunted in disgust, turning and leaving.

“I’ve more to say to you, Harold,” Lorraine turned and followed him into the corridor.

“Help me get the ropes off her,” The beta woman said. _Argent,_ Derek recalled suddenly, and wasn’t that a strange twist of fate.

They circled around the bed. The lovers ignored them as they loosened the bonds around Lydia’s wrists and ankles. They left without speaking and closed the door behind them.

 In the corridor, the Argent girl glanced down the stairs with a frown. “We should circle the house,” she said, “make sure the Blakes don’t return. Or the police.”

“That’s smart,” Scott agreed immediately. “Stiles, are you-”

“I’m fine,” Stiles answered very quickly. “Someone should stay inside, in case Mr. Martin tries to make trouble.”

They could hear Harold Martin being thoroughly chastised downstairs. His mother’s lecture nearly drowned out Cora and Lydia’s sex noises. Derek doubted he’d be allowed to make trouble any time soon.

“Good idea,” she nodded. “Can you-” she glanced at Derek, looking uncertain for the first. “Sorry, I’m Allison Argent.” She extended a very small hand.

“Derek Hale,” it was all he could say.

“I wish we’d met under different circumstances.” Her eyes shifted between Derek and Stiles. “Are you alright to keep watch inside?”

“Yes.” Stiles answered before Derek could start to consider it.

“Good,” Allison Argent said. Scott looked unconvinced but she lead him down the stairs and out onto the street.

Stiles looked up at Derek and held his gaze. They were alone, truly alone together, for the first time in five years. Stiles took his hand.

“Derek…” He wouldn’t stop looking at him, like Derek was somehow important enough, somehow worthy enough to be looked at like that. Like it wasn’t dangerous to touch him, not because of the law or the world but because Derek himself was poison, a danger to everything he cared about.

“Stiles, I’m sor-”

“Don’t.” Stiles interrupted quickly. “Please don’t apologize to me right now. You can do it later because I have questions that I’ll need answers for and we’re definitely having a fight soon but I can’t right now. I thought you were dead-” he shuddered, “for five years, I thought I’d never see you again…”

“I’m sorry-” Stiles silenced him with a look.

“You’re alive.” He said, “I thought you were dead but you’re here and you’re alive and I’m so- I’m so fucking happy to see you.”

He wrapped his arms tightly around Derek’s chest and before Derek could analyze it, he’d pulled Stiles close. _We’re doomed_. Stiles kissed him, cinnamon soaking into Derek’s skin. _We’re so fucking doomed._

Stiles pulled back, just enough to speak clearly. “I want to have sex with you. Right now.”

“What?”

***

“I want to have sex with you,” Stiles repeated, even as his mate looked at him like he’d spouted tentacles. “Please, Derek.”

“Stiles,” Derek didn’t let go, just looked away. “You don’t understand. I’m-”

“You’re my mate,” Stiles said. “I’m yours.”

“I won’t do that to you.”

Stiles shook his head. “Look, if you don’t want me, really don’t want me anymore, I’ll leave you alone, but you think you’re protecting me, or you think I don’t want you, you’re wrong. I love you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted in my life.”

“I’m not good for you,” Derek said and that wasn’t actually a no.

“That’s not true,” Stiles said. He stroked the curve of Derek’s bicep and let a shiver run through him. “I’ve spent the last five years thinking about you, about what I’d lost because I was scared. You could leave me tomorrow,” he took a deep breath, wishing Derek would deny it. “I want this now. I want you.”

Derek stared at him. He reached up, cupped his hand over Stiles’s cheek, and kissed him. “Okay,” he murmured, forehead pressed to Stiles’s, “Okay.”

They stumbled back along the hallway, kissing without regard to their surroundings. Finally, a door gave way behind them and Stiles opened his eyes just long enough to see a large, four poster bed with fresh white linens. He pushed Derek down, climbing on top of him.

“You’re sure?” he asked, straddling Derek’s chest looking down at him.

“I want this,” Derek said, any doubt disappeared from his voice. “I want you.”

Stiles recognized that voice. It was the same “fuck it” voice that appeared when Derek kissed him in the trenches and made everything else fall away. He reached down for Derek’s belt, pulling his trousers away with it.

Derek’s dick had already begun to harden as Stiles stroked tentative fingers over the shaft. Derek inhaled sharply. Stiles looked up. His face was flush and he stared at Stiles, lips wet and parted. He reached out, tugging softly at the collar of Stiles’ shirt.

“I want to see you,” he said.

Stiles undressed, almost forgetting to be nervous. He looked at Derek, trying to gauge his reaction. His face never changed but he reached forward again and pulled Stiles toward him. They crashed together, nothing but tongues and hands. Stiles reached down to stroke Derek’s dick, fast as he could, trying to touch as much as he possibly could. Derek was thick, and uncut. He throbbed in Stiles’ hand, groaning even as his nails dug into his mate’s skin.

He had new scars. Besides the obvious ones around his missing arm, Stiles couldn’t tell where they came from, how many had been there before the war. He marveled at the amount of things he didn’t know about Derek, everything he wanted to know before the day was over.

Stiles kissed his way down Derek’s chest, reveling in the wiry black hair, the muscles quaking at his touch. He remembered those. He remembered the feel of them pressed against his back with only the too thin layers of fatigues to separate them.

He swirled his tongue over the head of Derek’s cock before taking it full in his mouth. Derek made an intense, uninhibited sound, a half moan and half shout. Stiles bobbed down deeper, massaging Derek’s balls in rhythm. He could feel Derek’s knot begin to swell in his mouth. His alpha’s knot swelled for him.

Stiles glanced up. He could just see Derek’s face through a curtain of his own hair, flopped down in front of his face. Stiles’s mate blushed hard. His breath came in soft pants, never an entire inhale. He looked utterly lovely. Derek swallowed hard, suddenly aware of Stiles watching him. The knot throbbed in his mouth.

Derek threaded his fingers through Stiles’ hair pushing it back from his eyes. “Not yet,” he said in a ragged voice, “I don’t wanna… knot you yet.”

“What do you want?” Stiles asked, ruefully letting Derek’s dick slip from his lips.

“Come here.” Derek’s fingers tighten in his hair, as if to pull Stiles onto the bed. The idea was appealing, in a Neanderthal sense, but Stiles climbed up next to Derek without any more prompting. Derek took his shoulder, bracing himself on Stiles to rise onto his knees, then pushed the younger man back down. Stiles lay back on the ridiculous pillows and watched Derek watching him.

His fingers ghosted over Stiles’ skin, pressing down against his stomach, his chest, as if marveling that it was all really there. Stiles felt himself go still at such attention. Derek approached him with a kind of reverence, a gentleness that Stiles wasn’t certain he could cope with.

“Derek,” he said, “You don’t- if you don’t want-”

Derek’s eyes met his and flashed red. It wasn’t anger though, Stiles realized as his heart kicked into high gear. It was desire, possessive and primal. “I want you.” Derek said in a low growl that allowed no argument.

“Okay,” Stiles breathed. Derek reached above him, snatching one of the expensive looking pillows. Stiles lifted himself, allowing Derek to slide it under his ass. Derek held his dick in his hand, staring at Stiles.

A cold spark of pragmatism suddenly flared to life in Stiles’s brain. “Wait,” he said quickly. Derek froze and Stiles scrambled to the little end table, where several jars and bottles rested. He opened two until he found what he was looking for. A sort of synthetic slick for older omegas, at least that was the advertised demographic. Stiles had found it quite useful in previous adventures. He didn’t question how or why it was here, just thanked god.

He sat up, scooping a healthy amount of lube out of the jar. He took Derek’s dick in his hands, spreading the slick over it. “Sorry,” he said, “if I were an Omega, I could make my own-”

“You’re perfect.” Derek kissed him. Stiles smiled stupidly and gave Derek’s cock a few more strokes, just to spread out the lube. Then a few more strokes because Derek’s cock felt wonderful in his hand. Then a few more until Derek said, “Stiles,” in a choked breath.

“Okay,” Stiles said, laying back on the bed. Derek squared himself again and Stiles spread his legs wide and welcoming.

Derek pushed his fingers inside. Tentative, at first, afraid of hurting as he widened the hole. Then gaining confidence, he slipped another finger inside. Stiles couldn’t help the little moan that escaped his lips. Derek smiled. His cock stood without any assistance, curving slightly, waiting.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered and that was all the invitation required. His mate slid inside of him, the knot already burgeoning as it squeezed over the skin. Stiles gasped at the sudden intrusion. He hadn’t- It was different somehow than anything else he’d ever felt.

Derek pushed in, painfully, delectably slow and then fast, clumsily into Stiles’s ass, like someone flicked a switch. He had no finesse, almost no skill, but fuck if he didn’t hit everything exactly right. Like their bodies were designed for each other. Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist, pulling Derek close, even as his mate pushed into him.

“Fuck!” He couldn’t control his voice, couldn’t stop the volume. Everything else disappeared until he and Derek were alone in existence. “Fuck! Derek!”

 Derek made a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. His knot swelled inside Stiles, bigger than he’d ever thought possible. Stiles was begging now, repeating Derek’s name over and over without any real request. Because he didn’t need anything else. He just wanted this, just wanted Derek to fuck him for the rest of their lives. He felt so goddamn right with Derek inside him. It went beyond pleasure, beyond anything he’d ever experience. Derek grew inside of him, passed the point that he could pull out.

He couldn’t leave. Never again.

Derek reached forward, gripping Stiles shoulder and he fought to get further inside his mate. He started to speak, the first sounds of Stiles’ name over again though the letters lost meaning half way through. He settled on brushing his hand against Stiles’s cheek and leaving it there. Stiles nuzzled against his palm, biting down soft but deep enough to leave a mark.

Derek groaned. The knot inside Stiles swelled up, throbbing so tight that he thought it would burst. It pressed into him, deeper with every thrust. Stiles shouted as he came. His arms shot up and around Derek’s chest, his fingers digging into the small of his back.

“I love you,” Stiles mewled, coming again and again. “I love you, I love you.”

Derek’s knot throbbed, releasing its devastating warmth into Stiles. The Alpha roared as he came and crashed into Stiles. The bed springs creaked against their weight. His last orgasm left him with a shudder as Stiles tightened his arms around Derek’s neck. He bit down hard on the long, muscled neck. “I love you,” Stiles whispered against the skin.

Derek sighed deeply and buried his nose into the crook of Stiles’ neck. Stiles couldn’t smell anything beyond Derek, their two scents intermingling. They lay in silence, luxuriating in that cinnamon and sugar. Stiles felt himself still in Derek’s arm. His mate’s heart thumped peacefully against his chest, steadying out so much that Stiles thought he must be asleep.

Then, Derek breathed against his neck. “I love you, Stiles.”

Stiles didn’t say anything, just raised his hand to the back of Derek’s head and brushed his finger tips on the sweaty, jet black hair. Then Derek spoke again. “I love you. I’m sorry-”

“Shush,” Stiles whispered. He didn’t want to remember the world outside this room, the time outside this moment. Not now. Derek seemed to take this a divine command. He didn’t say anything, just pressed a kiss into his mate’s neck and closed his eyes.

They lay there together, intertwined, until sleep overtook them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a lot of this today, election day, with the idea that maybe my subscribers could do with something good in their inbox. I know I could.  
> It's weird to me how I can share something as deeply personal to me as my writing to a group of strangers over the internet. It's weird how normal it has become, and how much I treasure your feed back and support when I really know nothing more about you than the fact that you've read my work. I assume you are like me, that you need this escapism to cope with the madness around you.  
> The madness has only gotten worse. Some of you might be facing very real threats to your safety and sanity. It might be arrogence on my part to think a melodramatic tale of two dudes takin' a real long time to fuck would help but stories have guided me through the rough spots in my personal life, and the political climate.  
> I don't know any of you personally but I want you to know that I hope you are safe. I hope you take your happiness where you can and I hope I can give some back, even in this small way. I don't know your situation or what will happen but I believe you are strong enough to weather it. Take your time and feel whatever you can. Know that you are important. There are days that I don't just appriciate your comments but depend upon them. If nothing else, you've made an anxious woman far away feel a better when she was low. I hope very much to return the favor.  
> Thank you so much for reading.  
> Thank you for existing.


	16. Chapter 16

Derek’s arm woke him. Not the severed one, still painful an ocean and a life time away, but the one still attached. The heavy weight of Stiles Stilinski sent pins and needles down to his bones. Derek tightened his grip and buried his face back into Stiles’ neck, breathing him in.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ The events of the previous evening flooded into his head. Stiles had pleaded with Derek, to fuck him, and Derek had given in. Stupid. It would be that much harder to stop now, that much more dangerous to keep going.

He should get up. He should get up right now and go somewhere he couldn’t hurt the man laying next to him. The act of leaving would hurt him, yes, but maybe Stiles would hate him just enough that he wouldn’t come after him. Cora would hate him too, since leaving Stiles now would mean leaving Beacon Hills and his family entirely. Still, he should go, for their sakes.

Derek nuzzled in closer and breathed in deep. If Stiles shrunk down and lived inside his nose, Derek would never get enough of that scent. It made him giddy, insane… terrified. His fingers closed in his mate’s hair. It was so soft, softer than he’d ever imagined. He’d never thought about how Stiles might change with ages. In Derek’s mind, he was forever the twitchy beta private, too skinny and scared by every measure.

He was still skinny but only due to the true nature of his slender frame, not real desperation. He moved with more confidence now, acted with more certainty than he had in the trenches. Derek couldn’t imagine that version of Stiles taking him eagerly in his mouth, though he’d seen little hints in the quieter moments of the war. He’d thrived in Derek’s absence. He’d more than survive. He had become more of himself.

Derek should leave. He should let Stiles be this new, stronger self, without the burden of a useless mate.

The younger beta shifted against Derek’s chest. He could feel eyelids flutter against his skin. He heard a soft inhale, then another longer one. He’d missed his chance. Stiles was awake.

“Hey,” Stiles said, peering up at him.

“Hey,” Derek said. Soft eyes trapped him in amber.

Stiles cupped his hand against Derek’s cheek, carefully spreading his fingers over the stubble. “You’re still here. I can’t believe it.”

Derek wanted to apologize again but Stiles would only tell him not to. Instead, he kept quiet, just watching his mate.

After a long while of staring, Stiles’ gaze flitted around the room. “I think this is Harold’s room.”

“What?”

“The fat little alpha from yesterday?” Stiles said, with a frown. “Who tied his daughter to her bed? I think this is his room.”

“Why?”

“It’s posh as hell, but not interesting enough to be decadent.” Stiles said. “Also there’s a picture of him on that wall behind you.”

Derek glanced over his shoulders. Sure enough, there was a younger version of Harold Martin in black and white, with his arm around a young woman in a white dress who looked a lot like Lydia. “I think you’re right.”

“We should probably go,” Stiles said. He slid his arms around Derek and hugged him. Sweet and inconsistent.

Derek put his head on Stiles’ shoulder and nipped him softly. Stiles petted his hair and sighed deeply. They stayed that way, just listening to each other’s heartbeats, for a long time, until Stiles said again, “We should probably go.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed. He flexed his fingers in Stiles’ hair. Stiles leaned into the touch, like a cat. He smiled at Derek, a few tears threatening to escape his eyes.

“We should really go.”

“You’re not moving either.”

“I don’t want to,” Stiles said, like a confession. “The minute we go out there, everything becomes real. The last five years happened the minute we get out of bed.”

 _And you realize what a burden I am,_ Derek thought, ice water filling his head. _You leave. You survive._

He kissed Stiles, selfishly, for the last time. “We have to go,” he said. Stiles nodded and kissed Derek again. Derek let him.

They dressed quickly. He was surprised at how intact their clothes were after their night of passion. Derek couldn’t remember undressing, only being suddenly naked with Stiles, not questioning why in the thirst for his mate’s body. His clothes no longer smelled like him. Rather the entire room seemed soaked in the satisfying aroma of Derek and Stiles together.

That would be hard to get over.

Once they stepped into the hallway, another scent fought to overpower theirs. Derek recognized it from Cora’s room in the Hale apartment and supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. The two women stepped out a moment later. Lydia carried a suit case.

Cora wrinkled her nose and glanced between Derek and Stiles. “Did you-” she cut herself off, apparently thinking better of it. “We should go.”

“Agreed,” Derek said. He blinked at his sister for a moment. “Are you wearing a dress?”

“Shut up.” She said and Lydia chuckled.

“C’mon,” she said, nuzzling her mate to pacify her.

“I’m Stiles, by the way,” Stiles said with a small wave.

“Lydia Martin,” Lydia said and smiled awkwardly.

Cora rolled her eyes and muttered something blasphemous. She took Lydia by the arm and lead her mate down the staircase and out of the house.

The smells lingered even out in the fresh air. Derek could have sworn it was later but the sun had just risen. Still, Cora looked worried.

“We can’t chance a cab,” she said to Lydia, “not like this. Are you alright to walk?”

Lydia nodded, “There’s a reason I chose comfortable shoes.”

Cora simply nodded and they headed for home. The women strode forward while Stiles stuck painfully close to Derek’s side. They weren’t quite touching but his scent still permeated Derek’s nostrils. He could feel his mate’s eyes on him as well, just like in the trenches, and, just like in the war, Stiles made a point to look away if Derek ever tried to catch a glimpse himself.

Thus they made their way across town. As they passed through the rougher parts of town, closer and closer to the Hale apartment, the stares grew more and more blatant. Derek drew closer to his sister and he saw Stiles circle around to Lydia’s other side.

“Um,” he said, glancing at a street sign. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Home.” Cora said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Stiles, unsurprisingly, had an argument. “The same home those cops kicked in and arrested you in? That one?”

Cora snorted but Stiles continued. “Look, Grandma Martin got those assholes off your case for now-”

“When was Grandmere there?” Lydia asked and Derek wondered exactly how much of her heat the Omega remembered.

“If they found you once, they can find you again.” Stiles said. “They might do worse than arrest you.”

Cora growled.

“He’s got a point,” Lydia said and risked touching her mate’s shoulder.

Cora let out a small exhale of defeat and closed her eyes. “Where are we supposed to go then?”

“My Dad’s place is a few blocks over,” Stiles said. “They’re not gonna kick in the Sheriff’s door without a warrant.”

Cora looked at Derek who shrugged. Cora and Lydia ultimately had the most to lose here. Stiles’ father would likely protect him from any legal repercussions and Derek would at worst have to leave town but they’d lynched an Alpha woman for carrying on with an Omega when Derek was seventeen. Laura had kept Cora home from school for a week until the hubbub died down. He’d defer to his sister where her own life was at stake.

Said sister then looked back at Lydia, half asking her opinion and half appraising her risk. Derek understood the impulse. Even knowing what poison he was, Derek’s instincts still wanted to bundle Stiles up and take him to familiar territory, a place that smelled like pack and safety.

But, he supposed, they hadn’t really been safe in the apartment at all. Not since the deputies kicked the door in. Perhaps they’d never been safe there at all.

“Fine,” Cora said and Stiles lead them, down the opposite road, away from their own neighbor hood. Derek stuck close to him, allowing his mate to lead him to his execution. Only the propriety of the station and the desperation of Cora and Lydia’s situation kept Stiles’s family from justifiably ripping Derek’s head off.

 _No more than I deserve,_ Derek thought, as the arrived at the neat, whitewashed town house. Before Stiles could even fit his key in the lock, the door swung open. A short, curly haired woman immediately grabbed Stiles in a tight hug. “You’re alright?” she demanded.

“We’re okay,” Stiles said. The woman took a small breath and whacked him hard upside the head.

“You worried us half to death!” She hissed. She glared between the other three, as if they were all to blame for the worry. “Get inside! All of you! You weren’t followed?”

“No,” Stiles said as they ducked passed the aproned woman.

“Thank god,” she said, seeming to soften. She looked at her guests again, more carefully now. “My name is Melissa McCall. Scott and Stiles are my sons. I think I know who you are.” She pointed to each of the strangers, correctly guessing their names. When she reached Derek, Melissa McCall’s voice was frozen granite. She gave him a very long, appraising look. Derek knew he’d been found wanting.

Scott and Allison appeared a moment later and Derek was treated to another long look, much more murderous than Melissa’s had been. Allison at least only had eyes for Lydia and Cora but Scott had abandoned all pretext of decorum where Derek was concerned. He went immediately to Stiles. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, observing the tension in the air. He stepped in front of Derek, as if to block him from Scott. Derek wanted to back out of the door. He stayed put.

“Your father’s in the kitchen,” Melissa said. Nearly every part of Derek fought to escape but he let Stiles take his hand and lead him down the hallway. The walls were lined with framed photographs; Scott and Stiles in their army uniforms, The Sheriff in dress blues and a woman who looked like Stiles in a wedding dress.

 The Sheriff stood when they entered. He looked exhausted, resigned. Derek forced himself to meet the grey green eyes as they took him in again.

“Mr. Hale,” he said, with a frown.

“Sir,” Derek nodded.

“Dad,” Stiles stepped toward his father, his hands stretched out, like he was approaching a rapid dog. “Whatever you’re thinking-”

“I’m thinking I didn’t know you had a mate yesterday.” He spoke in calm, measured voice. It was terrifying. “I’m thinking I found out about it when you begged me to let him out of jail. I’m also thinking your actions over the last five years make a lot more sense when I factor in the idea that your mate abandoned you.”

A knife in the stomach would have felt better. Worse though, was the way Stiles surged forward to defend him even as Derek shrunk back.

“That’s not fair,” he said hotly, even though Derek knew it was absolutely fair. “You don’t know what-”

“Nothing excuses-“ but Melissa McCall stepped between them.

“Boys, there are other things to talk about now.” She said firmly, nodding toward the door.

The Sheriff forced a smile to his face as Cora and Lydia entered. There was the man he’d seen in the cell, with just a hint of the warmth Stiles had described in the trenches, even in this situation. “It’s good to see you outside of a cell, Miss Hale. May I presume you’re Lydia Martin, miss?”

Lydia nodded, taking his offered hand.

“Sheriff Noah Stilinski,” he said, by way of introduction. “I don’t uh- want to be indelicate but there’s a guest room off the hall if you get… ill again.” He blushed red and scratched the back of his neck. Derek got a sudden image of Stiles in twenty years and thought he might pass out right there.

“I should be fine, sir, thank you. Thank you for helping Cora.” Lydia said.

The Sheriff shrugged. “I only unlocked the cell. You have a very forceful grandmother. Please, sit.”

They sat, all except Melissa who immediately offered beverages, coffee, water or tea. Derek doubted he could keep anything down. Besides, Scott insisted on taking care of it for his mother. Scott would probably rather break the pot over Derek’s head rather than serve him coffee.

Derek chose the cowardly spot between Cora and Stiles, with a clear line to the door. Stiles took his hand. For a moment, Derek relaxed. Then the guilt over took him. _I don’t deserve this. Your father’s right. I can’t drag you into my shit._

But Stiles anchored him to the spot. The gentle touch could not be denied, however much Derek should have resisted.

 “Alright,” the Sheriff sighed from his spot at the front of the table. “Somebody tell me exactly what is going on.”

**Author's Note:**

> Operates under the same A/B/O rules as Sweetest Subterfuge. This will be a carnival of angst. It's World War One


End file.
